


Difficult To Name aka Titles Are Difficult

by elbowsinsidethedoor



Series: The Difficult Series [1]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bondage, D/s, M/M, Pro Dom John, Shaving, puppy play references, reference to age-play, unrealistic bondage benefits!, water sports-ish activity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-06-09 11:53:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 51,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6905140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elbowsinsidethedoor/pseuds/elbowsinsidethedoor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is a retired pro who comes back for a special client. For those who fear a BDSM themed story, please note that this is a tender love story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I love a submissive John Reese but this dynamic also appeals to me!
> 
> Zoe and Shaw don't figure as a couple until chapter 10.

She was sleek and leggy; a beautiful woman dressed in expensive leather who radiated poise and confidence. Even if he hadn't known Zoe Morgan, he'd have known she wasn't there to sign up for a self-defense class.  
  
John saw her walk into the gym and take a seat on the bench near the door as he was wrapping up a beginners' session. It was a lunch hour class of about twenty women. He nodded a greeting in her direction but took his time with the few students who had questions.  
  
He knew what she'd probably come for, the same thing she always wanted, but he was surprised to see her show up in person.  
  
When the last student left, she approached him.  
  
"Warren."  
  
"I go by Riley now, like it says on the sign."  
  
Riley's Gym. It was a rough space he rented on the edge of Chinatown, a bare-boned studio for classes at street level with a small, furnished living space above. Not much profit in the business. Almost every penny ended up in his landlord's pocket but he was okay with that. If he could help a few people feel less afraid, feel stronger, and pay his bills, it was all good.  
  
"Is this part of your quest to protect the sweet and vulnerable?" she taunted him.  
  
The jab was not far off from the truth but he could see she was already regretting the words, remembering she was here to ask for a favor.  
  
"Retired, Zoe, remember."  
  
"You haven't heard the pitch yet." She was following him to his office where he had a bagged lunch waiting on a desk he'd rescued from pickup on trash day.  
  
A couple of years before, with his life falling apart, John had literally wandered into the BDSM scene. He'd been drinking hard and didn't really care where he downed his liquor, especially after hours. A young veteran named Joey Durban had picked him up in what John had a vague impression was a biker bar.  
  
Durban had reached through John's whiskey-soaked senses in a way that few people could have. The 107th Infantry tattoo on his bare bicep caught John's eye. The 107th. He remembered them from deployment in Iraq. They'd seemed so young to him, still wide-eyed, wet behind the ears. John had looked from the tattoo up into a hopeful gaze and asked, "What can I do for you, soldier?"  
  
The answer had been surprising and specific and John much too drunk to even consider it. Durban took him home anyway and when another, more sober day dawned, he offered himself to the nascent Dominant he sensed in John Warren.  
  
John liked the kid and discovered a certain satisfaction in taking charge of the young vet. At a very dark and directionless time in his life their connection was a flicker of light for him. Through Joey he met others and discovered a community.  
  
There was a great deal John knew about the human body, about pain and its infinite gradations. There was a lot he knew about manipulating the body and mind, their vulnerabilities; legacies of his shadow military career.  
  
He had no interest in switching but otherwise John Warren proved to be an extremely versatile Dom. He rapidly gained a reputation for his skill and sensitivity, and a following among both male and female submissive players. He never pushed a sexual agenda and that went a long way to earning him the label, trustworthy.  
  
There was always a surplus of single males trying on the role of Dominant, looking for a quick fuck, thinking they'd found a way to make women do what they wanted. They were easy to spot and quickly winnowed out.  
  
The truth was it had been a while since John was interested in fucking anybody. He took care of himself. He preferred to be the one trusted with another person's physical needs and keep his own private.  
  
There were also lot of confused and sensitive young women drawn to the scene, not unlike the students John now tried to help in his classes at the gym.  
  
In his experience, the majority of people in the community, regardless of how they dressed or what they called themselves, were seeking someone to take charge of their needs: physical, emotional, mental, but mainly sexual. He sometimes wished he had a buck for every Master or Mistress who'd confided to him privately that they were interested in switching, if he was available.  
  
Going pro was almost inescapable in an environment where the demand was never ending.  
  
The businesswoman who recruited him was a savvy Domme named Zoe. She managed a small stable of pros, most of them female. John worked for her for about a year. She was an excellent manager and he honed his skills with a lot of different types of equipment. He gave pleasure to a devoted clientele but though he was always looking, he never found a partner who reached him beyond the set borders of a session. Joey, his first, had come closest to offering something more but the kid had moved on and married his childhood sweetheart.  
  
The money was good enough that John stayed with it beyond the point he really wanted to, the point where he accepted he wasn't going to find what he was looking for. When the chance to rent the small gym space came along he announced his retirement.  
  
Occasionally, he let Zoe talk him back into a special engagement but he'd been turning them down now for a while. He figured that was the reason she'd shown up in person.  
  
Zoe closed the door to the office behind them.  
  
"Make your pitch," he said.  
  
"This is for a very special client," she said.  
  
"Heard that before."  
  
She shrugged. "This one really is. You'd be doing something good, for a very good man."  
  
"And you know that, how?"  
  
"He did me a favor a little while ago and I'd like to pay him back. If I could do this myself, John … I would," she said. "And, honestly, I think you'll like him."  
  
He studied her face for a moment. He could use the infusion of cash and to a certain extent he trusted her.  
  
"Okay. Last time."  
  
She reached into a zippered pocket of her leather jacket and pulled out an envelope with a stack of crisp bills.  
  
"This is upfront. Not part of your fee," she said. "I'd like you to buy yourself a good suit, John, and a nice coat. This man appreciates fine tailoring."  
  
He glanced in the envelope and his brows lifted.  
  
He could buy a very good suit for this kind of money.  
  
"What do you get out of this?"  
  
"His undying gratitude, I hope."  
  
John was intrigued.  
  
"All right. Tell me about him."  
  
"He's a very private person. I'd say he's genius level brilliant. He has some physical issues, neck, hip. It may turn out you do nothing more than meet with him. He's not altogether sure he wants this, but I've convinced him to try it because I think it could do him a lot of good. I'll pay you for the initial meet whether anything comes of it or not … and you'll have a lovely new suit. He'll get in touch with details."  
  
"What was the favor, Zoe?"  
  
"I'm a pretty private person too, John."  
  
He watched her walk out, feeling there was something he was missing. There was an awful lot of bait in the water and he wondered what kind of hook it was hiding.  
  
  
***  
  
The new clothes felt good. He'd invested the whole stack of bills. Getting ready for the meeting he prepared as if for a session, just in case, grooming himself meticulously. He paid extra attention to details, like moisturizing his hands, buffing and smoothing his nails. He was surprised to feel somewhat aroused by making the extra effort. He also felt a dangerous undercurrent of hope.  
  
He hadn't been surprised, after Zoe's comments, to receive the checklists she'd given Harold Crane. Long, almost solid columns of hard limits. It was much as he expected with some notable exceptions. Nudity was acceptable, bondage, sexual touching was checked as possible, with negotiation. John was interested to see that sensory deprivation was acceptable.  
  
What he had in mind to meet these parameters was a gentle but thorough form of bondage that involved wrapping. He packed his kit accordingly, including a tightly rolled, thick foam mat in case it was needed. Best to be prepared if something developed on site.  
  
He felt the hunger to put his hands on the reins, to take charge and be trusted with another human being's vulnerability … and not harm them. To deliver someone safely where they needed to go. It didn't erase the past but sometimes it gave him respite.  
  
***  
  
The late sun was almost blinding, reflecting off the glassy exteriors lining the corporate corridor of Sixth Avenue. It was cold for the start of April and the street was like a wind tunnel. Not his favorite part of the city. John headed into the lobby of the IFT building, Ingram Finch Technologies. Harold Crane was an executive here, a tech wizard of some kind, according to Zoe.  
  
Suits everywhere. His was several cuts above average which gave him a small measure of satisfaction. He bypassed the security desk. John had received a courier package with a guest badge, key card, address, date and time.  
  
There were plenty of cameras, he saw, but not much staff. If he were coming here to harm this Crane guy he didn't think he'd have much trouble getting to him. As if he were reading John's mind, the guard at the elevator bay didn't take his eyes off him until the doors closed.  
  
The building and the situation were dampening any hint of anticipation he'd felt earlier. It was too much like an executive party set up. Guy tells his wife he's got to work late and John arrives as most people are leaving the building, finds him eagerly waiting on hands and knees in a penthouse suite, wearing some kind of bondage gear.  
  
Elevator nearly to the top but not quite.  
  
More glass, mirrors, and a quiet, empty, unfinished reception area. It looked like it was in the process of being stripped down or redone. A couch with a few pillows drew his eye. The pillows looked broken in, slept on.  
  
To the side, an open door and visible behind a massive desk, there was a small man working at a laptop. He looked up and closed his computer. It had to be Harold Crane, there was nobody else around.  
  
Meeting on an unoccupied floor of the building. An odd way to seek privacy, John thought.  
  
At first glance, John thought Harold Crane's picture should be in the dictionary next to the old-fashioned word, milquetoast. He looked prim, he looked shy but maybe milquetoast wasn't the right word. As he drew closer John's perception shifted and he thought it was definitely not the right word.  
  
John could see the neck issue in even the smallest movements and read chronic pain there. The stiff posture had created the prim impression. The man's gaze was direct and unflinching even though he was coloring up slightly.  
  
"Please have a seat," Crane said, in a voice that took it's time getting from one word to the next. It was a soft but confident voice.  
  
There was something professorial about him, the intelligence in his eyes, maybe, the sense he conveyed that he knew things and could deliver a lecture. John found him compelling; his face a collection of imbalances that added up to something more interesting than symmetry.  
  
This is a clever man, John thought. The longer he looked the less he saw a professor -- there wasn't a whiff of academia about him. Not in those clothes. The president of a prestigious university might be able to afford that kind of hand-tailoring, John thought, but it was unlikely the styling would be that sharp.  
  
The clothes, the setting, the key card access … John's instincts told him this "private person" was a whole lot higher up the food chain here than Zoe had indicated. Probably at the top of it. What was this outfit called: Ingram … Finch? John smiled and to himself, said, hello … Finch.  
  
He took a seat in the chair in front of the broad desk and set his case on the floor. He sat back slightly, in an unhurried fashion, letting his coat and suit jacket fall open casually, watching to see where the man's eyes traveled. He saw the blue-eyed gaze drop down his body to his crotch, blink and rise to his face again. Somewhere in John's chest there was a warming sensation and he felt his body respond with interest.  
  
Now he was hoping this meeting would lead to something more and he could take command of this diminutive popinjay.  
  
"Mr Riley, I would like to make clear from the outset that I do not find any pleasure in pain. I don't wish to be hurt, in any way." He frowned slightly. "Or humiliated."  
  
"No pain," he agreed. "No humiliation." Crane relaxed slightly. He broke eye contact to reach into a drawer of the desk and take out the papers; he'd kept a copy of his lists.  
  
"Ms Morgan provided me with these rather alarming checklists. I'm afraid I find almost everything here objectionable and yet she adamantly believes that some sort of bondage would be beneficial to me. You should also know, I've never considered myself to be submissive in any sense of word."  
  
Crane looked up from the papers. He was frowning and a little flushed, possibly from handling the checklists in the presence of someone who could do some of those nasty things to him. What John saw in him was someone who was unquestionably submissive. Not weak, but in need of someone to trust long enough to give his mind a rest. John saw a body that needed release of tension and relief from pain. He longed to be given control of those needs and fulfill them.  
  
"I've read through them," John assured him, to smooth the ruffled feathers. "I can work with them. What can you tell me about your injuries?"  
  
"Pins in my neck, at the top of my spine. In my hip. Is that a problem?"  
  
"No. Not a problem."  
  
Lips still pressed together, eyes narrowed. It was a very expressive face. John could practically hear the wheels spinning in the man's head, looking for some excuse to call this whole thing off. He watched him take a careful breath and exhale. Here it comes, thought John, and desperately did not want to let it happen.  
  
"Do you have reservations," John asked, before Crane could speak, "beyond the issues you mentioned?" He was trying to forestall any outright dismissal, a salesman's ploy. He had never worked with someone this hesitant, this conflicted about engaging. He'd had clients who were coy or embarrassed about what they wanted, but this was different.  
  
John believed he did want something, he needed something, or he wouldn't have let Zoe talk him into this. And he was surprised by how badly he wanted this session to happen, for himself. He had no time to figure out why.  
  
"Do you enjoy ... giving pain?" Crane asked, as if everything boiled down to this.  
  
"No," John answered honestly, and the man's eyes measured him.  
  
"Please assure me, if we do this, that we can stop at any time, if I wish to."  
  
"Absolutely."  
  
Another deep breath and he gazed down at his desk as if it were more than a blank surface. "Well ... I have cleared this evening," he said. There was still some reluctance but his tone had softened.  
  
"I'm free," John said, feeling a rush with the certainty it was going to happen.  
  
Crane looked up, now ever-so-slightly alarmed.  
  
"I haven't made any preparations. I didn't consult that list because I thought … "  
  
"Are you sober?" John asked. The man looked affronted.  
  
"I am."  
  
"That's my requirement." The only suggested preparation that pertained to what John had planned for Harold Crane was a shower. To him, Crane looked like he had, in fact, showered, that he had prepared himself.  
  
"Is this something that can be done here or does it have to be done in some sort of dungeon?"  
  
"Here is fine."  
  
John let his focus deepen. He'd been feeling the pull of the session from the moment Harold's eyes had caressed him and now he fully embraced it. The skills and talent he brought to bear were not different, in essence, from the ones he'd employed as an operative but now he used them to much different ends. He wanted this odd, charismatic little person to give himself to him, to open up and blossom in his hands.  
  
"All right," Crane said. "Is there some honorific I'm supposed to use to address you?" The brows knit as he asked this.  
  
"Not necessary, unless you have one in mind." It was often the case, a title or name dear to a sub's heart: Daddy, Master, Father … it made no difference to John.  
  
"Believe it or not, I did actually consider this," he said. "Most of the titles in the literature strike me as … absurd. I suppose that Sir would be the easiest for me to use. It sounds polite, at least."  
  
"It does," John agreed, suppressing a smile thinking of how little politeness had to do with most scenes in which the title, Sir, was used. "And did you consider what you would like to be called?"  
  
"Mostly I considered what I would not like to be called. I think we covered that … with the subject of humiliation. Could you call me by my name?"  
  
"Harold," John said. He said it slowly and affectionately. He'd never been asked to use someone's real name before. Crane might be fictitious but Harold felt and sounded real.  
  
The eyebrows lifted in surprise and John thought he could see a tiny glint of pleasure.  
  
"If I ask you to do something, Harold, you can say no. The session or action can be stopped any time. Your choice. But I'd like you to do what I ask, if you can. Understood?"  
  
"Yes … Sir." He tried the title and it came out without much difficulty.  
  
"Good," John said. "Very good. Let's begin."  
  
Normally, at this point he'd have instructed him to use the bathroom and undress but John wanted to capture the man's attention before he gave him a chance to go off by himself and start spinning the mental wheels again.  
  
"Take off your jacket and tie and your shoes now. The vest, your cufflinks, too." Harold nodded and complied. John could see it kept him calm to fulfill such simple requests.  
  
When he'd done these things he stood at ease, waiting.  
  
John sat forward slightly. "Now, Harold, I'd like you to approach me on your hands and knees, if you can. It's not too far. I think you can do it if you move slowly and carefully."  
  
John felt his heart beating hard. It was a simple but crucial command. If Harold could perform this action it would be a doorway for him to pass through, opening a new space for him to inhabit mentally. Physically, it would redistribute his body weight, stretch muscles and ultimately, after minimal discomfort, release tension.  
  
John watched his face; slight consternation, considering, no doubt, if this were meant to be humiliating, after all. John had deliberately couched the command in the tone of an invitation, with encouragement, to help him comply.  
  
Harold was composing himself, looking at the floor and John could see the gradual relaxation of his features as he decided to do as he'd been asked. It was a beautiful moment for John.  
  
He watched Harold's slow progress across the floor, maybe twelve feet, all told. It took some effort, putting stress on his core, his hands, his arms, neck and shoulders, realigning his hips.  
  
"Good."  
  
Harold had come to berth between John's spread thighs. John grasped him under his arms to support his upper body weight as he rose to his knees. John could already see a subtle change in Harold's neck and shoulders, his face, particularly his mouth had become smoother, lips fuller.  
  
John stood up, positioning his foot between Harold's knees. He made no attempt to further sexualize the posture, did not press to touch Harold's erection, though he was aware of it, or bring the man's face into contact with his, which hadn't fully distended or subsided -- John was riding the edge of arousal.  
  
"You can rest on my thigh," John said.  
  
Harold leaned the inch foreword to let his forehead press lightly and John stroked his soft, fine hair.  
  
"When you're ready to stand, lift your arms." Harold remained there for long seconds, resting, his breath was warm on John's thigh, which felt almost too good.  
  
The arms came up, tentatively and John lifted him as he had before, taking most of his weight until he was standing.  
   
"I'm going to take off your clothes, Harold," he said, keeping his voice low. "I won't touch you, sexually."  
  
"Yes, Sir," he whispered.  
  
John felt time stretch and his senses expand as he unbuttoned the first button in the row. He watched it slip free of the hole, and moved to the next. He was aware that fingertips could convey a wealth of sensation. He saw that Harold had closed his eyes and was accepting the resonance of this intimacy. He was, in fact, drinking it in.  
  
John was surprised but pleased by how quickly Harold was letting him in. There was no restlessness for him to defuse, no defensive body responses. Harold was butter in his hands.  
  
He left him in his unbuttoned shirt to kneel in front of him and remove his trousers. Harold swayed slightly and John steadied him, holding his hips to stop the motion. He felt tempted to continue to hold him, to press his face against Harold's belly, to kiss him. He consciously cleared the image from his mind.  
  
John did allow himself to breathe in his scent. The man was scrupulously clean but through the soap and powder fragrances there were body smells released with the escaping warmth when John slid his underwear down.  
  
He was careful not to touch the semi-hard penis jutting so close to him, but he couldn't stop himself from wanting to.  
  
Naked, Harold was compact, his legs looked strong, smoothly muscled though not well developed, as if he'd been a runner in his youth. John could see which muscles bore most of the strain of supporting the injured areas. There was extensive surgical scarring but John saw no evidence that Harold was ashamed of or self-conscious about the scars.  
  
The room temperature wasn't quite warm enough and John intentionally allowed him to become slightly chilled before he took off his own coat, warm with his body heat to wrap around him like an embrace. Harold uttered a breathy sigh of pleasure as the coat enveloped him.  
  
John wanted to hug him, run his hand down his back, let him feel his erection and kiss him. He took a step back, warning himself to be careful. It was so novel to feel this kind of desire for the submissive in his hands that careful was the last thing John wanted to be. But this was a professional engagement and restraint was essential. If there was a quality John possessed in abundance, it was self control.  
  
He positioned Harold comfortably to wait, kneeling on the floor with his head down on the chair where John had been sitting, kept warm with John's coat draped over him while he prepped his work area. There wasn't much to prepare; he unrolled the mat on the desk and retrieved the pillows he'd seen in the next room. He took a few items from his case and some bottled water. He found the thermostat and turned it up a few degrees.  
  
The material he used for wrapping was essentially bandaging but the cloth was dyed a rich purplish black for use where a medical reference might be disturbing. For some play the medical component was key but for Harold it was definitely not.  
  
It was time to cocoon him, gently urge him into a beneficial, secure shape. Harold was pliant and accepting as John moved him into different positions to facilitate the wrapping. He responded in a soft voice to any questions.  
  
John began with his head, his face and neck, to give him maximum relief for his eyes, his jaw and neck. The darkness and muffled sound would intensify all the sensations to follow.  
  
It was a sweet torment to handle him. John was grateful that Harold could not see him. He was gentle, wrapping the man's genitals, careful not to stroke him but Harold's cock was fully erect and welling with moisture. The wet and sensitive parts of his body, his mouth and penis were painfully appealing to John, the places where Harold opened to the world from the inside. He sighed and trapped the thick shaft against the wrapped belly and was grateful that the procedure never bared the temptation of Harold's asshole to him.  
  
John paid particular attention to his hands and feet, using separators for the toes and cotton balls to separate the fingers. He was careful not to strain them in any way.  
  
When he was finished, Harold lay on the massive desk cushioned by the foam mat with the supplemental support of the pillows to take pressure off his hip and neck. His nose and mouth were free but the rest of his body was enveloped in gentle pressure; arms and legs separately, in relaxed positions.  
  
John timed and checked, drank water, timed and re-checked. Timed. He had managed not to linger over intimate contact. He now gave vent mentally to desire, acknowledging how he wanted to run his hands over Harold's wrapped limbs, kiss him, manipulate the swollen mound of his genitals until he soaked his wrappings. He imagined Harold's cock and balls left naked, his ass exposed. He felt guilty even envisioning these things. Harold was so peaceful, so vulnerable.  
  
If he could have him for his own, if Harold were his, John thought, he could do these things and more, much more. The thought of it was too intense to be borne; he imagined kissing the bared mouth, sliding his tongue in him, sliding his dick between Harold's lips. He shook these thoughts off. This was not the time to indulge himself, this man was not his to make love to.  
  
"I'm going to begin to release you," John said quietly when the time had come for Harold to begin the journey back.  
  
"Not yet … John, please." Harold's voice was a breathy plea. A sub always wanted more, something John invariably shut down. But his name …. John felt an almost unbearable pleasure at the sound of his name on Harold's lips.  
  
"It's time," he said. He stroked Harold's stomach, his thigh.  
  
"I'm sorry … I shouldn't have said your name. Please … don't release me."  
  
"Harold," John said. "You're allowed to say my name. I'm not punishing you. It's been longer than you realize. I'm going to start at your feet. It's time." He began to cut away the bandages with blunt-nosed medical scissors he'd warmed first in his hand.  
  
"Please." He sounded desperate.  
  
John saw the wrapped hips attempt to move, Harold's breathing got more harsh and he seemed agitated. John made a decision though they had not negotiated sexual contact. He hoped he was deciding for Harold's sake and not his own. He lay a calming hand on his chest.  
  
"Relax, relax now. Is this what you want?" He brushed his other hand over the hump of his bandaged erection, he could feel the heat of it through the cloth.  
  
"Yes, " he breathed.  
  
"Good," John said, as calmly as he could. He began massaging the bound cock and balls, rolling them under his palm while he reached between the spread legs to push hard with his fist into his perineum. Harold trembled under his hands as John triggered his ejaculation and John shuddered, breathing deeply. When the spasms passed John stepped away, feeling his own body hot with desire and a sexual flush. He covered Harold with his coat, exposing him only where he was cutting the bindings, keeping him warm and hiding him from sight at the same time.  
  
He turned off the lights in both rooms when he was almost done, leaving only the sconces by the elevators for distant illumination. Even so, he warned Harold not to open his eyes right away when he uncovered them. He offered him water.  
  
If only there were a bed nearby where he could lie down with him, hold him, though he was too aroused for it to be peaceful.  
  
Instead, he watched over him, pulling the desk chair over to sit and observe him in the dim light. After a time he would make him sit up.  
  
John tried to quiet his thoughts. He willed his body to relax but his thoughts were spinning. The session was drawing to a close. Harold was not his in any way. He would not be able to touch him, even within the strict limits he'd set for the session.  
Harold might want more sessions, he thought. John hoped so. But he could just as easily not want them, or make appointments and cancel them. Move on, as Joey had. That had been disappointing. This would be … devastating.  
  
Ridiculous, he thought. He didn't know Harold Crane, or Finch, or whatever the hell his real name was, why should it matter? But it did. Something in John had come alive in this hour and a half.  
  
"Open your eyes now. I'll help you sit up."  
  
John helped him up slowly. Harold drank some water. He stayed upright and John rearranged the coat around his shoulders.  
  
He went to retrieve the man's clothing. He knew he should try to let him do as much as he could for himself. It was better to encourage a submissive to surface. But these might be the last moments of touching and John wouldn't give them up.  
  
Harold was watching him with owlish eyes, he'd grasped the cloth of John's coat and was holding it closed around himself.  
  
"John, does everyone … fall in love with you?" he asked him.  
  
"Sometimes ... people fall in love with submission. Not with me, I'm not ..." what? What could he say? I'm not a good man. I'm not the man you think I am.

"You're not what?"

"We should get you dressed now. Unless … you'd like to keep that coat." He said it lightly but wanted to give it to him, wanted to keep the mental picture of him in it.  
  
"I should keep it," Harold said. "And get it cleaned for you. But I don't want you to be cold when you go out."  
  
"I'll be fine." John relaxed. If Harold was planning to get the coat cleaned it meant he planned to see him again. "Would next week be good for you, same night?"  
  
"Yes. Maybe somewhere … nicer than this."  
  
"I'll take care of it," John said, beginning to gather his things. The discarded bandages went into a trash bag he'd brought for that purpose. Better not to leave traces behind. Scissors, unused wrap. Tape. "I want you to keep the mat, Harold. It'll be better for your naps than that couch."  
  
"How did you know?"  
  
"The pillows."  
  
"I suppose they do look slept on. John … "  
  
"Yes." His case was packed. It was time to go. It was hard to go.  
  
"Am I allowed to ask for … a kiss?"  
  
He's going to kill me with sweetness, John thought. He had not kissed anyone in a very long time. He hesitated. If he kissed Harold would it be too much? Would he overdo it, overwhelm him, scare him?  
  
"Sure," he said, and put his case down. He walked the few steps toward him and paused, studying him in the low light. Harold was still so open, so inviting. John took the sleeves of the coat and tied them to softly bind him in it. He turned up the collar against the back of Harold's neck and rested his hand there to steady him.  
  
Harold was perfection to kiss, yielding and clinging at the same time, giving John every soft surface of his mouth. Feeling the warm wetness he'd been craving, John's hard-on returned with a vengeance. He drew back before he became reckless, briefly pressing his lips to Harold's forehead.  
  
"I have to go," he told him. "Rest, eat something and stay hydrated. I'll see you next week."  
  
He left then, while he still could.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for slightly bad Nathan Ingram!

John was awake before sunrise, as always. His training was hard-wired into him. He never woke gradually or lingered in bed. Falling asleep drunk or sober made no difference. Sleeping in a bed or on a patch of dirt it would be the same. His eyes would open, he'd understand he was alive, and move.

He was moving, feeling the threadbare patches in the carpet, the cold tile in the bathroom; and something more. More than an inventory of things that needed doing. Something different. He hit the light switch, saw his own rough face in the bathroom mirror and thought, Harold.

In the shower he found his dick tender, his groin achy and wondered how many times he'd jerked off before falling asleep -- he'd fucked the little sub into oblivion, bathed him in sperm. His dick twitched and told him it wasn't enough.

In the gym, with the sun rising he completed his cleaning rituals -- he liked the place to shine at the start of the day: the small locker room, pristine, the two showers spotless, stacks of clean white towels. Gym floors and corners, dust-free and the wood floor perimeters gleaming.

He did a light workout to loosen up and took a cup of coffee into his office to look over the schedule and the accounts but was distracted by the sight of his phone. Harold's number was in his phone. He turned it on and … looked at the number. He shut it off and took a deep breath.

His Friday morning class was sparsely attended but he worked them with extra devotion, until they were sweating and loose-limbed, able to strike, able to run. Any one of these people might need their strength and whatever cunning he could give them to defend themselves or escape danger. As always, at the end of class, they winced and groaned when he made them practice the last ditch effort of jabbing to attack an assailant's eye. They hated it, but they practiced the motion.

It was ten o'clock. Harold would certainly be awake. But he would probably be working. It would be an interruption if John called. A text. Harold could ignore it. What was there to say? Harold, I want to kiss you again. I want you to crawl to me … naked. I want you … No.

He shook his head and willed his erection to subside. Downed a shot of his cold coffee.

He'd wait. He'd wait until he knew what to say. Make arrangements and then there would be a concrete message. Make arrangements with Zoe. The thought of contacting her was … not appealing. She'd want to know things. He wanted to know things, like how much she was going to charge Harold for the next meeting. This one had been on her, but … the thought of Harold paying to see him, that couldn't happen.

***

Harold woke up feeling good, not sure he could even register a number on his pain scale. He stretched under the covers, felt something warm and silky on his naked skin, a hint of roughness at the edge. John's coat. He'd taken John's coat to bed with him. The lining was satiny and slipped whisper smooth over his body. He pulled it up to touch the collar to his face, to his lips and closed his eyes.

If I keep this up, he thought, even the dry cleaners won't be able to get the stains out. With a groan he pushed it away. A moment's pause, a second groan, and he dragged it back, hugging it to his body and clutching it tight between his legs. His hand moved over the coat to his trapped hard-on, confined in the folds of cloth. He pressed down hard with the heel of his hand and gave himself up to the sweetness of memory, John's hands urging him and in a half-dozen strokes he was coming, quivering uncontrollably.

He lay still, holding the garment loosely in his arms as his breathing quieted, thinking, "I'll buy him a new one." He'd never been able to make himself come so quickly, so hard before. It was usually an ordeal of stroking with repeated applications of lube, arm tired before he could finish, strain in his neck, on his hip. More chore than pleasure for him since the accident; more than a decade ago.

He made it to work, a little later than usual.

On his way through the building, two different people asked him if he'd gotten his hair cut. Another asked if he'd lost weight. Nathan walked into his office, looked at him and asked if he'd gotten laid. Harold choked on his tea.

Nathan was the one who'd asked him to help Zoe Morgan, but he was unaware of all the various enterprises she had a hand in. He only knew her as a business woman who moved in the same social circles that he and his wife Olivia did. She'd approached him at a charity function.

"I hear you're a computer genius," she'd said to him. "I need someone discreet to help me figure out if my business system's been hacked."

"I know just the person."

"Not you?"

"I'm good," Nathan had told her, "but he's better."

Nathan had passed along the chore to him. Harold wasn't pleased about his services being offered over cocktails. Nathan said it was the price he had to pay for not attending the dinner himself. Harold agreed to do the favor, providing Nathan agreed not to do such a thing again.

The experience had turned out to be an unexpectedly interesting diversion. He spent a morning at her townhouse office tracing the breach in her network and shoring up her security. For him it was an intriguing puzzle, for her it was a godsend. At the end of his rather eye-opening work, he'd slid a piece of paper across her desk.

"This is the name of the individual who hacked your system. I'm sorry to say he's a member of the New York City Police Department. I'm happy to say, however, that he obtained no usable information."

"How can you know that?"

"I'm very good with computers, Ms Morgan. I can also assure you that you're now well protected."

"Thank you, Harold." Her smile was dazzling.

"Don't mention it. And I mean that, literally. I didn't realize when I came here today I'd be … hacking the NYPD and their employee emails. It was interesting, but not something I'd like to have broadcast or associated with IFT." It was his way of telling her she could trust him.

"I'm taking you to lunch," she'd said. "You're going to tell me how you've rooked Nathan Ingram into doing all the tedious socializing for your firm."

Harold smiled. He knew he was being charmed and nodded his consent.

They'd gone on to become friends. Though they didn't meet often Harold found her to be sophisticated and entertaining company. When she proposed that he consider a session with one of her professionals he hadn't been shocked or offended, but he'd been baffled.

"Think of it as physical therapy," she said. "The man I have in mind is truly gifted, I promise you, and you've never allowed me to thank you properly for saving my skin."

And now here he was, blushing at his desk with Nathan trying to figure out why.

"Relax," Nathan said. "I'd know it if you'd gotten laid." But he sat back and kind of squinted at Harold who looked away.

"I feel good. I've been having less pain," he said. It was true, as far as it went. "Let me get back to work. There's a lot to do if you want to be ready for your trip to DC."

"I'd rather watch you squirm. Something's going on. Did you finally make a move with Zoe?"

"Nathan, we're not having this conversation."

That his partner continued to keep up the charade of Harold's heterosexuality only depressed him. He knew why Nathan did it in the beginning but didn't understand why he had to keep doing it. Nathan wanted to negate the brief time they'd been something more than friends, something less than lovers. He perpetuated the myth that they were both "straight guys" who'd experimented a little. As far as Harold was concerned, there was no need. Nathan had been married and living a heterosexual existence for many years. Why did he need to drag him along?

Harold considered the fact that he'd been living a more or less celibate lifestyle beside the point, it didn't change who he was.

He'd been infatuated with Nathan when they were roommates in college. Nathan had indulged him, somewhat. Since then, a few times a year, Harold would find himself alone with Nathan when the man had been drinking. Nathan would look at him a certain way, touch himself to show he was aroused and Harold would usually give in to doing something for him. In the past few years he'd dreaded these encounters.

Now he pointedly turned his attention to his computer and got to work. He heard Nathan leave and breathed a sigh of relief. He briefly touched the phone in his pocket, took it out and looked at. He put it back in his pocket. Only John had its number. It would ring. It had to ring eventually, didn't it? He poured himself into the saving grace of work.

All day, it didn't ring. No need to panic, he thought. At home, on his laptop he googled Riley's Gym. Zoe had let slip that John operated a gym and with that clue it was easy enough to find. He taught mainly self defense classes, she said. Harold thought this was a perfectly lovely thing for someone to do.

The webpage was straightforward. No picture of John. He looked at the street view of the gym. Knowing he shouldn't, he hacked the closest street camera and brought the place to life.

John is there, he thought, on a funky little corner in Chinatown. Harold watched people come and go on the street in case one might be him. There were lights on in the windows of the floor above the gym. Harold knew he lived there but wasn't certain which windows were his.

He shut his laptop suddenly, feeling like a stalker. It's only been a day, he told himself, but couldn't help projecting how he'd feel if the whole week passed and he heard nothing.

It's his livelihood, of course he'll call, he thought. Harold didn't doubt that John was skilled at his job but he couldn't help feeling that there had been something more. He saw it in the man's eyes, felt it in his touch. And he'd seen that John was aroused. Maybe that's his gift, he considered, that he's able to make you feel … desired, make you feel cared for. 

Tea, he thought. A cup of tea to clear his mind and he'd get back to work. He was closing in on a tricky bit of coding that needed refinement. At the office he had more power at his disposal but at home, fewer distractions ... usually. Tea, he thought again, and willed himself up out of his chair.

The phone buzzed in his pocket and he stopped, steadying himself against the table.

"John," he said. There was only one person it could be.

"Harold. How are you?"

"I'm … fine, John. I'm … more than fine now I'm hearing your voice."

Dear god, why do I keep saying these things to him? Harold considered himself a verbal person who had a command of, and facility with words. But it seemed like with John, from the moment they'd begun the session, he had no filters. He thought things and they came out of his mouth.

"Good. That's … very good. I wanted to check in and make sure you're all right."

Harold found his way to a chair and sat down. He closed his eyes.

"Less pain," he said. "But … I miss you. Is that normal, the day after?" He heard John sigh and was instantly distressed to think it was because of his foolishness. "I'm sorry."

"There's nothing to be sorry for. It was a powerful session. I think you're doing well, Harold. I'll check in on you tomorrow. Have a good night."

"Thank you. You too, John. Good night."

Not a disaster, Harold thought. John had checked on him … and he'd said he would call again. Feeling like his edges had been smoothed and his breathing was easier, Harold went to the kitchen to brew some tea.

***

John lay on his bed. Not far away, in what passed for a kitchen, he saw the open containers of his half-eaten dinner sitting on the little formica table. He'd stopped eating to call. Having made up his mind what to say he'd left the table and hit the bed to give in to his need to hear Harold's voice.

He misses me, John thought. He thinks he misses me. He doesn't know me. He closed his eyes and remembered what it felt like to move his tongue in Harold's mouth.

***

Zoe was delighted by the bouquet and gift bracelet from Harold, but before she started congratulating herself she needed to hear from John. She'd had no doubt that John could take the wounded bundle of excessive brilliance, of repressed sexuality, and abundant charm that was her friend Harold Finch, and make him purr like a kitten. She'd watched John at work on much tougher cases. There was no one better. Now she needed to make sure that Harold didn't join the ranks of John's former clients, still reeling from his retirement.

John called her just when she was about to break down and call him.

"I need the Rose Room, Friday night," he said. "And you can't charge him."

Several beats passed. She was too amazed by what she was hearing to respond at first.

"You like him," she finally said.

"Yes, Zoe. Unfortunately, I like him … a lot."

"Why unfortunate?" Why was nothing simple with John?

"He's everything you said. He's more."

"I'm not seeing the problem." In her mind she was drinking champagne at their wedding.

"I'm not the pro he needs right now. I'm the guy who wants to fuck his brains out. I'm going to give him the session he deserves Friday night and keep my dick in my pants. After that, I don't know."

"Listen to me, John." 

 

***

John checked and re-checked every detail of the room. It was vital that he have everything he needed but that nothing startling or worrisome be left out in view. For most, the more black leather and dungeon equipment they saw, the better. Nothing would be worse, he thought, for Harold.

He'd chosen the Rose Room, the subtlest of Zoe's spaces. It was designed for age play so everything in it wasn't leather, or black. He removed or covered the most dangerous looking or potentially disturbing paraphernalia. He wasn't going to whip Harold, pierce or brand him and he wasn't going to diaper him or feed him from a bottle; he didn't want him even thinking about any of those things.

What the Rose room had that John wanted was an honest-to-god bed. It had a claw-foot tub. Harold didn't need to know about the other things in the cabinets. But the so-called changing table, a glorified massage table with some strategic openings and convenient shelves, was a perfect work surface.

He'd cleaned the room from top to bottom, preparing it much as he would the gym. The bedding was fresh, every surface spotless.

There was still one more day to wait.

He sat down on the floor and pulled the much-folded and unfolded papers out of the back pocket of his jeans. The new checklists from Harold. Zoe had insisted. New session, new lists. She'd told John in no uncertain terms that if the session was unpaid, he had to fill them out himself. Honestly.

He'd had to call Harold. To prepare him. To explain to him.

"Because you see I want something or indicate I'm interested, it doesn't mean I expect it or want you to agree. Do you understand." His heart had been in his throat.

"I … understand," Harold had said. But did he?

John looked for what could be the hundredth time through the papers. Where were the towering columns of hard limits? John would have to follow his instincts, not these guidelines. He did believe the little note Harold had penned in the margin beside anal penetration.

"Experienced once. Painful. Willing to try."

Someone had fucked Harold and hurt him. John wanted to kill.


	3. Chapter 3

Friday morning, a well-dressed young man came into the gym carrying a garment bag. John saw him looking around the entry and over at the group of women who were stretching, chatting, assembling themselves slowly for class. He came out of the office and intercepted him before he could wander any further.

"Can I help you?"

"John Riley? I have a delivery from Mr Crane. Are you … John Riley?"

"Yes. Dry cleaning?"

"No sir," the youngster said, and John thought he looked indignant. "This is a custom made garment from Michel Laurent."

"Well … thank you." John took it from his hand. His smile conveyed, sorry, no tip. The young man nodded and with a last look around, left. John turned and found his students all watching.

"Is Mr Crane your boyfriend?" one of his bolder students asked.

"His rich boyfriend!" another one piped up.

"Get set up, ladies." They were all eyes as he carried it back to his office and hung it on the back of the door. Their teasing pleased him. It meant they'd come far enough along not to be afraid of or intimidated by him.

When he hung the new coat in his closet later, regretting the weather had turned too warm for him to wear it, he found the card in the pocket. "With my apologies, John. I'm keeping the other one for myself."

He resisted the pull of the image it conjured up: Harold wrapped up in his coat on the desk, asking to be kissed. That he wanted to keep the coat was a very good sign. Most of the signs Harold gave him were encouraging. It wasn't surprising that a man would be drawn to someone who'd devoted two hours to making him feel physically and mentally, sexually relaxed, thought John. It was certainly not the first time a client had sent him an expensive gift or shown an interest in pursuing a relationship. The difference was in what John felt. It was in Harold, what he inspired in John; the way he gave of himself, his innocence and sincerity. The difference was … everything.

Work, physical work was a good distraction but the underlying charge of anticipation was with him all day. In some ways, he faced the evening to come like a mission. He had objectives: Harold would be rendered soft and stress-free, swaddled in his wrappings. Harold would be carefully, very carefully and systematically, re-introduced to anal penetration; time and opportunity allowing. The thought of this made John feel a little light-headed but he had already assembled the graduated plugs he'd use -- not to prepare Harold for himself, to help him reclaim a pleasure center of his own body. John conjured up, yet again, an image for the unknown man who'd hurt Harold, killed him, and put the thought aside for his own peace of mind. The important thing was that he would repair Harold. If there was a future reward for it … he wasn't going to think about it now.

John intended to bathe him. The claw-foot tub had a perfectly angled back for support and there were several bath pillows he could use to insure it. The bath would make Harold feel clean again and warm after the anal activity (if it happened) and John imagined holding him in his arms in bed afterwards. Maybe.

Somewhere along the line, somehow, John would have to see to his own needs. He tried not to overwork the possibilities in his head.

Harold's new checklists offered possibilities. Too many possibilities to be believed. Harold now claimed to be interested in having someone ejaculate on his body, in his mouth, on his face, in his ass, willing to give oral sex, to be … fucked. John didn't buy this sudden turn around but he knew he'd need some kind of relief during the session or it would be difficult to do the things he wanted to do, calmly.

The last of his preparations was food. Cut-up fruit, cheese. Things he could feed him … by hand.

***

It was warm in the Rose Room and John wore no jacket. His sleeves were rolled up and he was barefoot. Shoes were not allowed in this play space and not needed with the ultra-plush rugs underfoot. Zoe had them cleaned between guests, even with the no-shoe rule, mainly for body fluid spills, John imagined.

He felt composed, open, ready; much as he would have felt at the outset of a mission with the preparations complete. Harold was due any time and John would confront the reality, not the stuff of his fantasies.

They'd spoken the night before. John had told him to eat lightly, late in the afternoon. Harold had the directions, and a key. He would know the neighborhood - they were only two doors from Zoe's office. She owned most of this very exclusive block of the city.

He heard him enter the foyer, hesitate between two entries and choose the correct one. Crisp and immaculate, so effortlessly stylish in his fine clothes he could have stepped off a page of GQ, or out of the frame of a French movie.

"Hello Harold."

"John." John willed himself to stillness at the rush of emotion, seeing him. He could feel his heart beating in his chest, his face warm, a fresh surge of the unending desire that he'd felt since the week before. The unlikelihood of Harold being his struck him; an incredible chance that had brought him within his reach.

"You look very handsome," he told him.

"Thank you, John."

"There are hangers behind you. Please leave your things there, jacket, tie, shoes and socks. The rug is very soft"

Harold sat on the foyer bench, taking off his shoes and socks, stashing his cufflinks in his pocket. John watched him hang up his jacket. His movements were a little stilted, he was favoring his leg more than John remembered.

"Thank you for the lovely coat, Harold. It arrived this morning."

"You're welcome. I'm … sorry I couldn't return the other one." His voice got quiet and he blushed saying this. He was embarrassed by something and John wondered if his coat had been enjoying Harold's body in his place. 

"Walk to the edge of the rug and use the arm of the chair to help you down to your knees." He saw the tension in his stride, the hint of a frown. His little French film star was buzzing with a swirl of emotion that needed quieting. He was not quite lowering himself, moving with some difficulty, possibly resenting this action. "Harold, stop. Sit down in the chair."

They now faced each other, some ten feet apart and Harold did not look happy.

"The same ground rules apply today," John said. "You can say no to anything. I won't be angry or disappointed in you. I'd like you to come to me on your hands and knees, if you can. I'd like you to try. If it's too difficult, stop and tell me. Understood?"

"I've had a rough day, John. I just … want to be close to you. This," he waved ineffectually at the floor, "this takes so long." John smiled a little in spite of himself, in spite of the distress in Harold's face and voice. His open eagerness was like a drop of honey.

"If I touched you right now, you'd hardly feel it. You're distracted, your hip is aching, you're thinking a hundred thoughts. So … it would be good if you can manage it, to lower yourself to this very soft rug and come to me carefully on your hands and knees."

The anguish cleared as John spoke deliberately to soothe him and Harold agreed with a slight nod. John watched him plan and execute his transition to the floor. It took some time, with pauses to adjust. Observing him helped center John.

"Good," he said, when Harold completed the journey. He lifted him to his knees and saw the desired result in Harold's face, the relief in his shoulders but the stance through his hips still concerned him.

John slid down to the floor and directed him forward. "Rest your elbows here, Harold, on the seat. A little closer to the chair, your forehead on your arms. That's good." John moved behind him.

"You're like a puppet with tangled strings," he said. 

He stroked his hands down Harold's back, caressed his waist, held his hips gently, pulling back and up slightly. Then he put his hands around Harold's thigh below the hip with the pins and kneaded the muscles, working down toward his knee and back up a few times.

"Better," he said when he was done. The pose was a little rough, a little too suggestive, on his knees between Harold's legs. He could tell by the slight sway and tensing of the round butt in front of him that Harold was feeling open and exposed. John ran his hands up the backs of his thighs again, this time to his ass cheeks, and squeezed gently to reassure him and then he moved to Harold's side and gripped him firmly, one-handed by the seat of his tailored pants --- to acknowledge and express his desire, to diffuse tension.

"Harold," he said, near his ear, "I do want to fuck you, but I don't need to and I'm not going to. I don't want you worrying about it." He released his grip and pet him gently. "Understood?"

"Yes."

"Very good. Let's get up now, I'll help you."

The changing table was a perfect work surface. John could move around on all sides and he'd adjusted the height at his hip level. A thin, baby-soft flannel sheet, borrowed from the age-play paraphernalia, was perfect for keeping Harold warm as his relaxed body cooled during the wrapping process.

Harold asked to watch for a while, and John allowed it. He began at his feet this time so he could see him work and looked up now and then to find the blue eyes dreamily following his movements. Sometimes Harold was watching his hands, sometimes his body, his face.

They were both aroused and John didn't avoid touching as he had the week before but he didn't want to narrow focus to sexual contact yet. At one point, feeling the heat of Harold's gaze at his crotch, he took Harold's hand and brushed the back of it across his erection.

"It's for you," he told him. "But not now." He kissed the hand and put it back on the table to begin wrapping it.

"Time to rest your eyes," he said at last.

The cocooning was accomplished more quickly than the first time he'd done it, he was less hesitant and the work surface was more efficient. He timed and checked and allowed himself some rationed touching; running his hands up Harold's thighs, framing the cock and balls between his hands. John felt an intensification of his senses as if he and Harold were sharing a space where the air was richer. He teased him with a fingertip under a layer of the stretchy fabric near the head of the bound cock, stroking in a circular motion. Harold made some very sensuous pleading sounds and John thought he could make him come this way … but didn't. Not yet, he thought, though it went counter to every instinct to deny Harold anything.

He leaned over him to kiss his covered forehead, the bridge of his nose.

His mouth; isolated and accentuated, the only exposed flesh. Kissing him was a drink of clear water in the dessert. Exquisite and intense, he bathed his tongue in Harold's mouth, licked at his lips. The little sub responded with yearning sounds and movement and John felt weak. 

He drew back, squeezed at the base of his cock to choke back the flood. He saw that Harold's erection was straining visibly in its fabric prison. "Is this what you want?" he asked him, touching lightly. Harold's breath huffed.

"No … John, I want you on my mouth." The soft plea plummeted through him and John slipped inside, losing his footing at the edge of deep water. He ran the back of Harold's hand along the length of his cock. He wanted what Harold was asking for … very badly. 

"This is what you want."

"Yes … please."

John unzipped his pants. Steadying Harold's head he touched the swollen head of his overwrought dick to his lips.

"You've got it," John said. He was oozing pre-come and Harold was licking it, trying to suck at him, unable to take him in at that angle. John slid over the tongue, the wet lips. Harold tried to suck at the underside of him, like a hungry little fish feeding at something too big. John could feel the vibration of his frustrated moans, then the sweet tongue was licking him.

Harold made sounds that were unmistakable, moaning from deep in his chest and John looked down his body to see him pressing upward, stabbing against his confinement, and the thrust of his hips as he ejaculated … his body twisting with pleasure. This was … too much … too good. His sub had come from the excitement of trying to suck him. John leaned heavily against the table and stroked himself, rubbing the head of his cock on Harold's lips. His come shot past and a small soaking rivulet spilled down along the side of Harold's mouth as he coaxed the last of it out of himself.

John groaned and blew out a breath, trying to pull his senses back together. He shook his head, put his dick back in his pants and leaned down to kiss his forehead.

"Are you okay, Harold?" He found his voice, afraid he might have been too rough at the end.

"Kiss," Harold entreated in a voice that was barely there.

John, undone ten different ways, wiped his come from the side of Harold's face with his thumb and kissed him, touching the now swollen, reddened surfaces with his tongue.

It was good to center on cutting the bonds, not think about the extraordinary fact that he had allowed himself to come in the presence of another person, touching; how long it had been since the last time. Harold was peaceful. He drank water and relaxed under John's hands. With only a night light burning in the kitchen corner of the suite, John uncovered his eyes and told him to keep them closed.

Soon he helped him to sit in the armchair and drink more water, fed him pieces of melon and cheese. He turned on a few lights and sat beside him on the arm of the chair, holding him warm against his side until he felt enough time had passed.

"Do you feel ready to continue?"

"Continue?" Harold sighed.

"I want you to lie face down on the table, using the head support. Your cock will hang down through the lower opening. It will feel good, Harold, I promise."

There was a round padded ring for the face to look through, attached by adjustable arms, and a long, wide opening through which the cock and balls would dangle. John helped Harold into position and checked the angle for his neck, adjusting it slightly. The genital opening was designed to accommodate most heights and Harold fit near the top of the opening, there was plenty of room for John to reach through between his legs from behind, for him to pet the soft package of Harold's cock and balls. He did this a number of times, loving the heavy softness in his palm.

A flannel spread from hip to shoulders and a second from hip to feet. John spent some time stroking him through the flannel, massaging a little.

"Harold, you need to be able to enjoy things that are meant to feel good," he told him. "I'm going to handle you with care and you're going to stop me if you feel discomfort. I want you to experience gentle anal penetration. Do you trust me?"

"Yes, John."

"Good." John opened the drawer of his supplies. He put on a pair of black latex gloves from a box of hundreds, and bared Harold's smooth butt.

"Relax now." He spread his cheeks and used a lotion-soaked cleansing wipe he knew would feel soothing and moist and Harold gave up a little pleasure sound. He was already very clean but John knew this would give him a feeling of freshness and relieve any anxiety he might feel about it. John used the wipe to slide his fingertip over and around the small puckered opening, pleasuring the surface, not entering him.

He disposed of the first glove and reached between Harold's thighs to cup his balls in his palm and feel his silky cock. Harold made an appreciative sound and John felt the cock swell a little in his hand. He gave him a warm tug and let go.

The first plug was small and flexible, narrow at the tip, swelling gradually in the middle and narrow at the base before flaring for safety so it couldn't slide all the way in; coppery-colored silicon. Gloved again, John was generous with the lubricant; a thick variety for anal use. He slid the slippery soft plug into Harold with no difficulty and was rewarded with a soft, "Oh."

He snapped off the gloves, rubbed his hands together to warm them and again reached between Harold's thighs to fondle him.

Repeating this process a number of times he accustomed him finally to a largish medium plug, one that made Harold groan and gasp with pleasure, his dick fully hard and beginning to leak under him.

"I know you can come again," John told him. He knelt beside the table, one hand above pressing firmly on the base of the plug and reaching from below with the other to milk Harold's cock in a lubed fist. John's own ignored hard-on was aching but the ache felt good; he was deeply immersed in what he was doing. He imagined how good it would feel to have his dick buried in the soft butt under his hand but he was not impatient, did not feel deprived. The opposite. He felt like Harold was giving him everything when he panted and bucked in his hands, trapped between John's hand on his ass and his pumping fist, giving up his sperm under John's control.

"Rest," John told him, covering him securely. "You've earned it."

He took the opportunity to clean his supplies, lining up the washed plugs like a row of colorful soldiers on a towel to air-dry in the kitchen. These would only ever be used for Harold. He ran water in the tub, very hot in case it took a while to get his weary sub into it. The sound of the running water made John aware of his full bladder and it occurred to him that Harold probably needed a visit to the bathroom. He turned the water off and went to him.

"Does anyone on this table need to piss?" John asked, stroking Harold's back, his butt.

Harold groaned.

"I can't move," he said. John thought this might be true. He helped him to turn over.

"Are you saying you'll lie here quietly and let me suck the piss out of you?" John felt an inner shudder of pleasure at the thought but knew as far as he'd brought Harold, he hadn't brought him that far. "Come on, I'm going to help you."

He lifted him from the table, wrapped the flannel around him and walked him to the bathroom. He was sorry to expose him to the brighter light but loved being able to see him.

He steadied him sitting on the toilet to piss, and got down on the floor in front of him.

"You're too tired to stand."

Though exhausted, Harold looked beautiful; his hair mussed, his face completely relaxed and rosy, no hint of tension in his brow, shoulders at ease, drawn back as his chest expanded with his breathing.

Harold didn't complain or object when John reached between his legs to hold his cock and aim it downward into the bowl, he sighed and relieved his bladder. His blue eyes were on John, who could not remember ever feeling happier than he did this minute, looking in Harold's eyes, with his soft cock in his hand, pulsing with the stream of urine. When there were only droplets left he bent his head and and lifted him to his mouth to lick them off of him. Harold made a little surprised, pleased sound.

John slid his hand downward between Harold's thighs to hold his balls in his palm as he had any number of times that evening, never tiring of their weight and tenderness in his hand. He wanted to reach further, to probe at his asshole but let him be. He sighed and took Harold's wrists in his hands, moving them back by his sides. "Stay like that, close your eyes."

He unzipped his pants, knew Harold heard the sound and was questioning, mentally. To distract him he put his hand on his thigh and stroked him, soothing, and groaned with relief to empty his own bladder. Watching the stream pour over Harold's cock and down into the bowl he was surprised to see the cock twitch and a barely restless move of his hips that revealed Harold was excited by the hot splash of his piss but unable to get hard. John found this as sweet as a kiss. He stood up and steadied Harold's head with a hand on his cheek to offer his dick to his lips. Harold opened his mouth to take him in and sucked. John thought he looked as peaceful as a baby at the nipple.

He drew back when he started to get hard. Harold looked up at him, a little concerned and said, "Why?"

"The bath will get cold."

"A bath does sound nice."

It had a good effect. Harold was already very relaxed, being submerged in the bath seemed to revive him, make him glow. John took off his shirt and enjoyed the blue-eyed inspection of his body.

"Why are you so good, John?" Harold asked him.

"I'm not good, but I enjoy being good to you."

"Is it the same with others? I wish … " Harold said, and hesitated. John could see he didn't want to say this. He wanted something but was afraid to ask for it. John had grown so used to thinking of how to secure Harold for himself, he hadn't thought about how Harold might want ownership of him.

"Harold, there are no others. Only you. And it's never been like this for me with anyone, only you."

Harold's eyes closed for a long moment, and emotion moved like a faint cloud across his features. John saw a tear slide from under his lashes and start down his cheek. He leaned close to kiss the side of his face and find the salty drop with his tongue.

"So," he said. "Are you letting anybody else give you baths?"

The thought of anyone else touching Harold's naked body sent signals to a part of John that felt primal and unreasoning. He cautioned himself it was much too soon to be so possessive, but still had to know.

"No, John. There's only you."

"Good. That's very good. Let's agree, for now, that you won't. No one else."

"No one else," Harold agreed.

"Now that I've got you clean," he sighed, "I seriously need to lick you all over and get you sticky again. Time to get out of this tub and on to the bed where I can reach everything I want."

John meant it, literally. He lay him down, still slightly damp on a pair of towels and surrendered to the powerful tide of his longings, letting himself sink deep. He needed to touch, to lick him, to kiss him, to suck on him. Harold's mouth and genitals were his moorings as he traveled from his throat to the creases of his thighs to the backs of his knees. He nursed at his soft dick and spread Harold's legs to tongue his damp ass. Too turned-on to continue, he stretched out beside him, holding him and coaxed his own second coming on to Harold's spit-moistened stomach.

***

Harold was steeped in sensations more profound than sexual. He'd never been so open, every part of himself revealed and … adored. He felt like a kitten that's been licked from one end to the other. More than safe, it was joyous to be naked in the universe created for him by John; a long-limbed, powerful man who was exceptionally, unbelievably gentle, from whom nothing could be or should be hidden or withheld. Harold pressed himself to him wherever John sucked, he stretched to offer his skin to the wet swipes of his tongue. He pushed upward lazily when his cock was sucked, felt a swelling sweetness though he couldn't get hard. His thoughts dissolved when the soft tongue slid between the cheeks of his ass.

He didn't speak, he barely formed thoughts, inhabiting a yielding physicality, an exultant state. He glided from this happiness into sleep.

Harold woke up alone. It took him many blinks to remember where he was and why he was so comfortable. There was light beyond the curtains but it felt early. At some point he'd gotten into the bed but didn't remember. He felt the space beside him for warmth but the sheets were cool to the touch. Then he saw the paper on the pillow.

Gone for a run. Call when you wake up.

Harold found his glasses. Found his phone and saw the time was a little past 7:30. When he answered, John sounded like he'd been running but not out of breath.

"Morning, Harold. Are you hungry?"

"I am."

"What can I bring you?"

"I'd like you to bring me you," he said a little wistfully. "Unfortunately, I have to head home and get ready for a 9:00 meeting with my business partner and a couple of … government officials. It can't be missed, I'm afraid. Are you free later?"

"I have classes at ten and eleven. Then again in the afternoon, from two until five."

Harold didn't know what to say, couldn't think of how he would move through time until he saw John again.

"Harold, there's still fruit and cheese in the refrigerator. Eat something before you go, you need fuel. Call me when you're finished with work and we'll see each other tonight. So, eat and drink something. You'll be fine."

"I will, John. Thank you."

Harold did not want to leave the oasis of the suite. He dutifully ate some melon and a few pieces of cheese. It helped, both having something in his stomach and fulfilling a directive given to him by John. The morning's meeting was not something he looked forward to.

Nathan was being pressured and pressuring him in turn. As the mouthpiece of IFT he was unequaled in selling their technology, but he had a very bad habit of promising the moon before Harold could finish creating it. This project was the most sensitive they'd ever undertaken. Harold trusted no one but himself with the essential coding. He wished Nathan could meet with these people without him but he supposed he'd put off this sort of thing on his partner too often.


	4. Chapter 4

Harold emerged from the elevator at 8:50, trying not to rush but aware he didn't have the cushion of time he would have liked before the meeting. Carla, the executive assistant he shared with Nathan was away from her desk and that was a small thing to be grateful for. No one to detain him and ask why he was late. Carla worshipped Nathan and ninety-five percent of her attention was devoted to him. Harold, in his own world at work, needed little tending to or assistance.

His reflection in the mens room assured him the rosy blooms on his throat were safely hidden by his collar. Mostly. It didn't matter. What mattered was how good it felt when John sucked at his skin. The muscles across the top of his back relaxed as his thoughts drifted to John, the ache in his neck receded as tension flowed out of him. Eyes closing, he imagined strong hands smoothing his shoulders, John's soothing voice uttering the word, "Better."

Nathan was already in the glass-walled conference room with Carla who was distributing information booklets around the table. He gave Harold a look as he walked in.

"Where have you been -- is that a bruise on your neck?"

"Is there tea?" Harold asked.

Nathan's attention turned to the opening elevator doors beyond and a stream of suit clad men with conspicuous ear pieces fanning through reception; harbingers of their guests' arrival. Denton Weeks, a top dog, in Nathan's words, at the NSA. The woman, Alicia Corwin, a little further down the chain of command, with some specialty Harold couldn't remember.

He looked at the shiny packet in front of him without opening it.

The software was not complete and wasn't ready for testing, that was all he would have to say. Nathan would do the singing and dancing -- touting the potential of their work and making claims that they were close to resolving various issues involved. Nathan had overseen a team that produced a video package to demonstrate some of the software functions he was promising.

"How close are you," Weeks demanded of Harold some twenty minutes into the meeting.

"There is still a lot of work to be done," he answered as firmly as he could. Corwin caught his eye and looked vaguely sympathetic.

"I don't think you fully appreciate the urgency, how quickly we need to get a system up and running," Weeks said, and went on to lecture Harold; hammer him with statistics. He would more or less re-make this point in various ways over the course of another hour and a half. Harold never had a different answer to give him. Nathan did his best to embroider on Harold's unsatisfying responses.

He wondered if the same pointless meeting was going to occur at every tech firm vying for this contract. The substance of it could have been covered in a phone call lasting less than a minute. Is the system ready? No. When will it be? Unknown.

The system. It would combine a search engine of immense power with the ability to filter and analyze data. Simple to describe, complex to create.

The government had no lack of surveillance data but when it came to correlating and making sense of the information they gathered, they were struggling in the dark. IFT and other tech firms had been solicited to submit plans to turn oceans of data into actionable intelligence. Nathan was determined that they would get the contract. Not for the money. He wanted the prestige and he wanted them to be doing their part in the fight against terrorism. Harold was in accord with those aims, generally, but he was the one actually doing the work and couldn't afford to be waving a flag as he did it.

Harold thought he was getting close in some areas but he had no intention of discussing technical details with either of these people, or anyone else for that matter. When the meeting ended, more than two hours after it began, he headed downstairs to the floor where he'd first met John. Behind the office with the overlarge desk there was a multi-screened work station that he retreated to most afternoons, if he could. It was his preferred workplace. It sat at one end of a massive open space that housed a sea of servers. He felt freer here. Nathan sometimes dropped in and occupied one of a couple of armchairs he'd dragged in from the unused reception area.

Harold had declined to join Nathan and Ms Corwin for lunch after the endless meeting. He ordered a sandwich and tea from the coffee shop down the block and took them with him to work in private for the afternoon. He was unsettled by the meeting. Not happy with the kind of man Denton Weeks seemed to be.

Coding was soothing work. He tinkered with a portion that needed refining for close to an hour. Then needing a break and thinking of John he decided to run a test, using John for the subject of the modified facial recognition he'd just tweaked.

He did it idly, wondering if he might uncover old school photos, smiling at the thought of how John must have looked as a kid.

The engine started at the gym, capturing street cam images, much as he expected, pleased that the software was performing. Then faster than he could follow, a cascade of windows overtook his screens. He stared, confused as he caught brief glimpses: military documents, a dozen, more, twenty, maybe thirty passports flashing in quick succession. The face Harold knew. Classified documents, texts, emails, Interpol warrants … satellite images in the hundreds … an explosion in China.

When the waterfall of windows finally stopped, Harold's heart felt like it would beat its way out of his chest. Slowly, as if in a dream, he began to examine what his software had wrought.

Three hours, four hours he sat, piecing together the story of a man who did not exist. Most of the material came from documents and images believed to be destroyed by those who'd created them. The engine had unearthed the flimsiest ghosts of digital footprints. They told the tale of an un-named man with a brilliant military history, recruited via the CIA into a black branch of the military. Trained as an operative.

Harold could trace his training through evaluations, reports, through emails between supervisors. They'd molded him into a spy, a killer. A killer who'd been killed in turn. Failure to eliminate a series of targets. A compromised asset; taken out in an operation sanctioned by people whose names were encoded, sanctioned by his handlers. Used in the shadows for years, Harold saw, and then erased. Presumed dead in China.

He sat immobilized, terrified.

He wasn't afraid of John. He was afraid of what he knew about John and of how he'd made the discovery. He felt certain that no one, maybe not even John himself, knew the truth he'd uncovered, knew all that had been done to him. This was not the story of John Riley, the man who gave classes in self defense. Not the man Zoe arranged for him to meet, who'd been known as John Warren. This was the deeper past, the darker past of a man who'd been known as John Reese.

No one must see this or know this. 

In a sudden surge of panic Harold picked up the container of his cold tea and poured it over the laptop keyboard, destroying the hard drive. No one must have access to this. Not to John, not to the software. He'd created something too powerful, too invasive, it crashed through firewalls like a hammer through tissue, reassembling data from its invisible traces.

John. Harold's heart was breaking. He wanted to cry but felt dry as dust. To think of how the gentle man he knew had been twisted and used like a weapon and then discarded. Harold felt helpless. Every direction an impossibility. What if they were right, that John had been compromised? Was he some sort of spy, an agent for China. No. Not possible. He'd seen the real reason they wanted to destroy him, his increasing hesitation to kill.

In his mind he saw him as he'd looked the day before, waiting patiently for him in the rose-hued room, so handsome with his shirtsleeves rolled up his forearms, collar open. The way John had looked at him, like he was a gift. Harold knew, whatever John had been or was now, he could not bear to lose him.

Somehow, he'd convince Nathan to give up the government contract. Nathan must not follow through on his negotiations with the NSA. The genie must be stuffed back into the bottle. But even if he could manage that ... it was only a matter of time before someone else devised similar technology and mined this information.

It was past six o'clock. The phone in his pocket buzzed.

***

John didn't like the way Harold sounded on the phone. He sounded wrung out. He sounded frightened. The opposite of what John had expected. Harold said very little. "I need to see you. Where we met the first time. I'll clear the passes."

John had answered, "I'm on my way."

He had showered after his last class and dressed in his freshly dry-cleaned suit, resisting the urge to take the edge off; the impulse to stretch out on his bed and delve into the night before, stroking himself to fresh memories.

He'd had a provisional plan to accustom Harold to being with him in public. He couldn't keep him confined to a play space forever, though the thought definitely had its appeal. Dinner, somewhere nice, not extravagant -- he didn't have that kind of cash, but he sensed that Harold was a man of discriminating tastes, not a snob. There was a difference.

Now he had only one objective, reach Harold and find out what had happened in less than twelve hours to turn a man he'd left as peaceful as the pillows he was sleeping on into the one with the choked voice on the phone. The worst case scenario was riding in a holster at the small of his back. It was the thread of fear he'd heard, the memory flash of Harold meeting with government officials.

John lived with the constant threat of discovery, despite two and a half years without a sign. But he couldn't understand why, if he had been discovered, he wasn't already dead. Only the paranoid survive, he reminded himself, circumventing the building security, not trusting whatever measures Harold had put in place. Sloppy to do business with the government with such permeable defenses, he thought. He arrived not by elevator but by service stairway, in coveralls borrowed from the maintenance lockers. He entered an immense room filled with servers and heard distant voices. Harold and a man. He moved closer to listen.

"Why are you still holed up in here working, Harold? Let it go for tonight. The meeting didn't go as badly as you think it did. Alicia and I had a delightful lunch. She assured me that we're not out of the running. Far from it. No one else has produced any viable results. She and I had some drinks, she loosened up quite a bit."

"Nathan, please go. I have work to do and it's not getting done while you're here."

"Am I … distracting you, Harold?" The voice was suggestive.

"Please, just go now."

Red flag, but not the kind he'd expected. Nathan Ingram. The partner. The only danger here, John thought, was a man who wanted something that belonged to him. He shifted position slightly to get a better look. Harold was seated in front of a half dozen screens that were running programs incomprehensible to John. Ingram was draped in a nearby chair, tie loosened, legs splayed, his hand on his own thigh to draw attention to his crotch.

John dropped the coveralls and stepped out of them, glad to be wearing his one good suit, courtesy of Zoe Morgan. He left his gun holstered and strode forward into their midst from the banks of servers.

"Harold, I am very impressed," he said, as if they were in mid conversation and he'd just strolled away to look at the servers. Harold swiveled his chair toward him in surprise at the sound of his voice; his brows rising and mouth opening.

"John," he said. And before he could say another word, John stepped between him and Nathan, perching languidly on the edge of Harold's desk, deep within Harold's personal space. He leaned forward, put his hand on the back of Harold's neck and brushed his lips against his forehead. Then he turned slightly and offered Nathan the chill of perfected sang-froid.

"Who are you?" he asked, as if Nathan had interrupted them.

"Who am I?" Nathan said, incredulous; he stared as if the devil himself had appeared before him. "Who are you?"

Shock and awe, John thought, an excellent military tactic, even distilled, one-on-one.

"Nathan," Harold's voice, attempting to make peace, "this is John. John, this is my business partner, Nathan Ingram. He just stopped by on his way out."

The look on the man's face as he rose to leave told John he was not happy about being dismissed.

John's look in return, said, I'd like to dismiss you permanently. 

He listened for the sounds of departure at the elevator. When he was satisfied he'd gone, he turned his attention to Harold. Big blue eyes were gazing up through the serious glasses. John could read so many things in his face; happiness, relief, an under-layer of strain.

"John, you're here."

"Tell me something," he said, trying to keep his voice even. "Is he your one time, the one who hurt you?"

"How could you know that?"

"Not from you, from him," John said, eyes closing briefly. Then he moved. He looked through the doorway into the decoy office where he'd first laid eyes on Harold, scanned it and went into the other room, staring at the elevators doors Nathan had passed through, imagining …

"John," Harold was calling him with some urgency. He returned to him but didn't approach, pausing near the doorway. He needed to keep the violence thrumming inside him at a distance from Harold.

"We were just kids, John. He didn't mean to hurt me. Don't even think that. Nathan is, well, he's a married man for one thing."

"And you're … his forbidden candy." John tried to inhale a deep breath through the tightening of his stomach muscles.

Harold shook his head.

"I was never that, never." He lowered his eyes, a shy offering that reached out to John. "I think you made it clear," he looked up. "If I'm any sort of candy … it's yours."

John's deep breath reached his diaphragm. More calmly he studied the room around them. Tech wizard, he thought. Genius-level brilliance, were Zoe's words. Here was the outer show of the intelligence he'd seen in him from the beginning. All of this, was Harold.

"John," Harold said, now drawing his gaze, looking in his eyes, his voice tender, achey. "I know. I … know who you are. I know everything … about John Reese."

His body moved with a mind of its own. In less than a second he reached him, lifted him out of his chair and held him pinned against the nearest server with his arm across his throat. Not hard enough to damage but Harold was trying to catch his breath, looking into his eyes.

"How do you know that name?" his voice was low and dangerous but even under this extreme provocation he'd stopped short of harming him.

Harold looked up at him. Guileless, helpless against the pressures where John had him pinned at his throat with his arm and at his crotch with his hip and thigh. God help him, Harold was yielding everywhere, but excited to held, his dick climbing John's leg, and John was hard, so hard, with adrenaline and desire.

Harold didn't speak but John became aware of a fluttering touch, Harold's hands under his jacket, lighting on him at his waist and resting as soft as could be. Harold lifted his chin slightly, parting his lips. His eyes offered only supplication and longing. John melted inside.

If Harold were the bait of a trap, even if he knew it to be true, in this moment he'd walk into the jaws of it to have him. He released his hold on Harold's neck, moving his hands down to pin his upper arms gently. The adrenaline was giving way to lust. He wanted to fuck Harold blind, but his needs ran even deeper than that. He had to have this, this man who offered himself so completely. He turned his hips to let him feel how hard he was, how much he wanted him and rocked his thigh against Harold's warm, hard cock, wanting to hear him moan.

"You're so brave to say my name," he whispered by his ear. "To touch me." He lessened the pressure against Harold's erection to hear the needy sound he knew would come out of him and feel him try to rub against him. "So needy," he murmured. He kissed him and teased him with his thigh until he was gasping. Then he pinned him tight and ground against his cock. His perfect little sub shook and groaned, trapped and struggling with restless thighs, too confined to thrust but squirming under the pressure of John's leg until he came. John backed off slightly when the tremors quieted but continued to hold him until he was still, thinking of how he would soon fill Harold's silky wet drawers with his own come.

He guided him to one of the armchairs and sat him down, loose limbed and quiet now though John knew the thoughts would begin to rise again, the talk would begin again, soon. Not yet. Not time yet. First he wanted this. Opening the fine trousers and moving their fabric aside. Unzipping and freeing his own hard cock, letting Harold gaze at it, seeing the light it kindled in his eyes despite having come only minutes before. John shifted Harold's hips closer to the edge of the seat.

"Lean back," he told him, moving close.

He slid his cock through the opening of Harold's sticky boxers, through the thick come on his stomach, down over and around his soft damp cock and back up. It felt so good, slick and smooth, intimate and warm. Harold's head was resting on the back on the chair, he was watching from under his lashes. He spread his thighs wider, lifting up toward John as if the opening in the wet silk was his cunt and he was urging John to fuck him. With one hand braced on Harold's good hip, John stroked himself exultantly on his sub's slippery skin until he drenched him in the pent up flood from his balls.

He sat back on his heels, laying his hand over Harold's lower belly, rubbing gently, and downward over his cock, spreading the fluids, barely squeezing. He would have liked to strip him down now, have him naked and open, but there were things to be said and things to be done. With a resigned sigh he zipped himself up and closed Harold back into his trousers.


	5. Chapter 5

Harold was at his desk, John sat on the edge of it.

Not unlike an hour before, Harold thought. He'd been in agony then, needing to see John, not knowing how he would say what he needed to say. Nathan had shown up, a little drunk, wanting Harold's attention; wanting something he had no right to ask for and Harold had no desire to give him. With John due any minute he'd felt desperate to get rid of him, afraid of the two sides of his life colliding. Then astonishingly, John had appeared out of thin air and put himself like a shield between him and Nathan.

Harold was still cherishing this in a quiet corner of his heart. John had touched him for Nathan to see; openly, intimately, possessively. In the space of heartbeats, he'd written in stone what Harold had spent years trying to make Nathan accept -- the truth about his sexuality. He'd expressed things Harold wanted to say but couldn't, afraid of hurting Nathan's feelings -- you have no right or claim based on the past.

Now John was looking to him.

"Tell me what you think you know."

"I don't just think I know," he said. "I saw hundreds of documents, John. Memos and emails. I saw passports, satellite photos. Reports, things people thought they destroyed." The images were still inside him and he tried to reconcile them with what he saw now. He couldn't.

"How is that possible?"

"Digital footprints, traces. I'm very good with computers, John."

John looked at him in a way he recalled from the start of their first meeting. Assessing him more dispassionately than with the warmth he'd felt as the minutes ticked past. It had been that emerging heat, the light in John's eyes, that had tipped his decision to go forward, to put himself in his hands. Harold now wished for the warmth to return.

"Who did you meet with this morning?"

"Denton Weeks, from the NSA. Alicia Corwin, I think she works for him. It wasn't … pleasant. They've solicited a number of tech firms to come up with a system to turn their data feeds into workable intelligence. I've made some headway but the scope of it's huge. For two hours that man tried to pin me down on where we are in the process. I came down here afterwards, to get away for some peace. I worked on enhancing facial recognition and then I tested the modifications I'd made." Reluctantly, he admitted, "I used you as my test on the street cam captures. I thought I'd find some old yearbook photos, maybe." His voice drifted off.

John looked up, away from him, a strange sort of smile on his face, eyes roaming the servers as if he'd see what Harold was speaking of.

"Where are the files now, Harold?"

"I destroyed them. And the hard drive," he said. "I panicked. The updated version and all the material about you." John met his eyes again and there was an unsettling intensity.

"Harold, what you're doing, the people you're dealing with, you don't realize how dangerous it is. I got to you much too easily tonight. You shouldn't have trusted me."

"But I do." He trusted him completely. Why did he question it?

"Stand up, Harold."

He stood, and felt the reminder of the other things they'd done, his underwear clinging to his stomach. John stood in front of him and Harold waited.

"Put your hands on my waist the way you did before," he said. His voice had the timbre of gentle command that brushed Harold's senses like velvet. Harold touched him and loved the feeling under his hands of powerful muscles, the heat of John's body.

"You need to understand," John's voice was soft but very serious. "The guards in the lobby, the cameras, they're nothing to someone like me. Slide your hands all the way around me." John drew him closer against him. "There."

Harold encountered the gun in its holster and recoiled. He pressed his hands to John's sides, his heart beating hard. John kissed the side of his face.

"I don't like firearms," Harold said, trying to absorb the steadier beat of John's heart against his chest.

"Neither do I, but if someone's going to have them, I'd rather it was me. Do you understand the danger you were in."

Harold wanted to hold John but didn't dare put his arms around him, afraid to accidentally touch the gun. He knew John wanted him to understand that he could have hurt him, to make it real.

But this was also real, Harold insisted internally, the man whose arms were around him.

"I think IFT has a lock on that contract," John said. "Alicia Corwin doesn't spend two hours in a meaningless meeting, she doesn't do casual lunch. Your partner may think he loosened her up but I guarantee it was the other way around, she was pumping him for information."

As much of a waste of time as the meeting seemed to him, the fact remained that they had come to New York just to harangue him for two hours.

"I can sabotage the contract," Harold said, lifting his head from John's chest. It was like a lead weight to think of. "Give them something that doesn't work."

"I don't think so," John said, stroking his back. "You're not built for deception, Harold. And if someone's going to build this, whatever, machine for them, I rather it be you."

This affirmation, so affectionate, sparkled inside him and as he tucked himself closer, closing his eyes he began to see the way to protect John's past, make it invisible, impervious to searching. The code was writing itself in his mind.


	6. Chapter 6

John could feel Harold's weariness as he leaned into him. He's tired, John thought, probably hungry. There was nothing he could do now to right the vast wrong of Harold being exposed to so much … ugliness, but he could take care of him in the moment.  
  
"Let's clean you up and get out of here, Harold. We'll go eat something."  
  
The restroom, like the reception area, looked unfinished. No doors, no covers on the light fixtures, the walls were primed but unpainted. There was an oversized wooden cabinet against the wall that looked like a match for the massive desk in the outer office.  
  
"Nathan's, well, she's also my assistant, ordered the desk and this wardrobe before we made the decision to put in the servers and not finish off this floor. I keep a few things. She orders linens," he said, opening the door. John rested his hands on Harold's waist, looking in over his shoulder.  
  
"What have you got squirreled away?" Tidy, organized shelves and a short rack with a few neatly spaced items of clothing. He saw a tall stack of luxurious-looking towels.  
  
"Clean underwear for one thing," Harold said, reaching into a box with an atelier imprint. To one side there were undershirts, to the other, silky boxers. John had no use for this kind of finery himself but he liked it for Harold, who took out a pair and his toiletry kit from the shelf above. John reached past him to turn a jar around and see the label.  
  
"Coconut oil?" Thinking of lube.  
  
"For the scars," he said. "It helps a little."  
  
Maybe not the best idea, he thought, given the short-term goals of food and rest, to be in here with Harold half-naked. John used a warm washcloth to clean the remnants of dried come off of his stomach and felt in no hurry to stop touching him or see him dressed again.  
  
He assessed the utility of the long empty counter behind them; he could make him comfortable there on a bed of towels. Harold's toiletry kit offered rich possibilities; shaving cream, a razor. And there was the coconut oil. His bare skin would shine.  
  
An exercise requiring precision and concentrated focus appealed to John almost as much as handling Harold's body. Dark time would be more restful for Harold than sitting in a restaurant. He glanced at his watch. Fifteen minutes, twenty. A reasonable delay.  
  
***  
  
There was nothing remotely erotic about this room, Harold thought, it was a collection of unrelieved hard edges under stark light. Except with John in it, it was. Even glancing at the bare toilet stalls sent his mind to places that made him feel warm.  
  
In a million years he wouldn't have dreamed that another man's urine on his body could be anything but demeaning, disturbing; maybe in the abstract he still thought so. But as he'd experienced it, it was erotic and intimate. He remembered feeling treasured and aroused, not demeaned in any way.  
  
He leaned against the counter, holding his shirttails and undershirt out of the way for John to wipe him clean. He anticipated the warm washcloth continuing downward. He was forming a quiet conviction that his body now belonged to John, especially this part of it. For days on end he'd felt a hushed but ever-present longing. To Harold it seemed like his sexual self had been dormant for years and now awakened by John, he possessed it. He chided himself for this romantic notion but believed it anyway.  
  
"Before we eat," John said, "I'm going to send you into the quiet dark for a little while."  
  
"Here?" What quiet darkness could exist in this room?  
  
He learned the answer on a bed of towels. Harold could see nothing through the blindfold of washcloths, soothing on his eyelids. He knew there was light beyond but for him it was blissfully dark. The air was warm on his lower body. He still wore his shirt but it was open. The cuffs were loose and his undershirt was pushed up to his waist. John had crossed his arms loosely on his chest and then tucked a towel around him, the ends beneath him. It felt secure, like being hugged. He could hear the sound of items being put on the counter.  
  
The susurrant sound of his shaving cream dispenser. Lathered hands slid over him, massaging his pelvis, relaxing muscles he didn't realize were tense until they released; a vague ache in his hip disappeared. Fingers pulled gently on his soft cock and slid between the cheeks of his ass. Harold heard sounds he couldn't identify. Then a quiet clicking, sliding sound. What was it?  
  
"Is that …" He hesitated to say, though it would make sense of all the lather.  
  
"Your razor," John said softly. "I'm very good with blades, Harold."  
  
John's hand rested on his stomach for long moments and Harold sank deeper, beneath the level where he could speak words out loud. The sensations when they came were faint. Tiny scraping motions like John was carefully gathering something from his skin. An image came to him of a flower heavy with pollen and a bee barely touching, collecting it. He imagined John's touch was like the whirring small wings must feel inside the petals. I'm the flower, he thought, and his cock swelled, lifting up luxuriously full.  
  
***  
  
John thought he'd seen a painting somewhere, sometime, of a semi-nude man draped sensuously over folds of fabric the way Harold was now.  
  
In the quiet, he accepted that Harold knew who he was. Knew every ugly truth about him. Still, he'd trusted the most tender and vulnerable parts of himself to John wielding a blade. He felt unworthy but deeply grateful. It could be the mission of a lifetime, he thought, to oversee and protect Harold's trust.  
  
He washed the shaving remnants and patted him dry. Anointed him with oil.  
  
Now he stroked and teased the bare, hard cock, making it glisten and making Harold restless with the need to come; wanting to see him try to thrust -- which he would not allow. He listened for the changes in his breathing, watched his movements, and made himself a little crazy by sliding a hand between his cheeks to touch his slicked asshole. When Harold tried thrusting upward, John left his butt in peace and used his forearm across his upper thighs to pin his body down, knowing Harold came hardest when he felt helpless and trapped. He urged him to ejaculate in his mouth, sucking it from him to capture all the moisture so he could spit it into his hand to use on himself.  
  
So close. He held Harold's bent legs against him, drawing his hips close to the edge of the counter, to stroke himself to climax, rubbing against the soft skin of his ass, near as he dared to get to fucking him. It was enough for now to batter the cheeks with his come. He let Harold's feet down on the counter slowly and rested his forehead on his bent knee. While he steadied his breathing he spread the wetness over Harold's skin.  
  
Again he washed him, kissed him, patted him dry. Kissed him again. Harold was supple and peaceful. John readied his clothes and turned out the lights so the room was lit from outside.  
  
"Time to come back," he told him.  
  
"Kiss," Harold whispered, delaying. This was a request he couldn't resist any more than he had the first time, not when Harold was so utterly open and buttery soft. He slid the blindfold away and kissed him.  
  
All told, twenty-five minutes and they were on their way out. John was satisfied with the time spent. Harold looked restored to GQ crispness, with a glow.  
  
"Where would you like to eat?" he asked, admiring him while they waited for the elevator.  
  
"I'd like to take you to one of my favorite places."  
  
John, who'd put in time mingling, when necessary, with the very wealthy, expected a small, exclusive place where they addressed the patrons by name and didn't bother putting prices on the menus. He didn't expect the cab to pull up in front a coffee shop on a side street in the garment district.  
  
"I hope you don't mind, John. It's a wonderful place for comfort food and this has been a … tumultuous kind of day."  
  
"I like comfort food," he said, opening the door for Harold, stroking his back as he slowly walked past him.  
  
One thing John had gotten right, the hostess greeted him by name.  
  
The booths were deep and comfortable and the reflective surfaces abundant. John could scan 360 degrees at a glance. Having dinner in a restaurant was in line with his original objectives for the evening; plans he'd devised what seemed like a very long time ago, to accustom Harold to being with him in public, being with him in a non-sexual context.  
  
"I recommend the Eggs Benedict," Harold said. "But the pancakes and omelets are also very good."  
  
Harold seemed to be having no difficulty whatsoever being in public with him; looking happily down at the menu and then up at John with seductive affection. He had a dewy, sated, contented look.  
  
John wanted the table out of his way and Harold tucked securely in his arms. He acknowledged that the problem with being in public was definitely … his.  
  
He quietly tolerated the distance between them.  
  
It was, at least, less challenging than it had been earlier when he had to exercise the necessary restraint, the disciplined stillness to evaluate exactly what Harold knew and how he knew it.  
  
He knew everything. John hadn't asked for specifics. He could imagine too easily what the memos and emails he'd seen contained. The mission reports. Targets interrogated, eliminated. Harold now knew all this because he was … genius level brilliant and … very good with computers. He now understood these were understatements.  
  
He wished vaguely, as the food arrived, that Harold were some kind of insurance salesman, or maybe smart like a librarian, a doctor … something sort of smart but safe. Pointless to think about. Harold was who he was, John thought. His particular variety of brilliance was there in his eyes, in his expressions, it was inseparable from his lips, his lovely hands, the way he moved and spoke, from the whole person he was. John wanted him exactly this way.  
  
Nothing had changed in how Harold looked at him, how he touched him; it was all the evidence he had really needed to know his innocence. But the details had mattered.  
  
He let go of those thoughts in favor of watching him eat. Bites of egg and English muffin topped with hollandaise sauce disappearing into his mouth. Next time he'd sit beside him, not across from him. It would be better because he could touch him, and easier because he wouldn't be so distracted by things entering Harold's mouth. Best, if he could be feeding those bites to him, himself.  
  
John looked away, sat up straighter and did a quick scan of the place before he applied himself to the food on his plate. He paused only a couple of times to allow himself the pleasure of soaking a piece of pancake in syrup and holding it out for him to eat from his fork. He was doing pretty well when he glanced up and saw Harold had stopped eating. His cheeks were a little pink and all his attention was focused on him like a soft beam of light.  
  
"I'm pretty sure I'm in love with you," Harold said quietly, seriously. "I understand it's probably much too soon to say this sort of thing, but, I feel it's true, John."  
  
John couldn't speak. It hurt, like a piercing of his heart. Maybe there was something to that whole business of valentines, cherubs with bows and arrows. He cleared his throat.  
  
"Harold, you can't say something like that, you can't look at me like that … here." He reached into his pocket for his wallet, tossed bills on the table and slid out of the booth. Harold looked startled but got up from the table, too.  
  
He thanked god for ubiquitous taxis and hustled Harold into one. He gave his own address, unable to think of where else to go, then he drew him close, urging him back on the support of his arm to kiss him. He tasted like maple syrup.  
  
"The driver," Harold whispered, with the barest resistance.  
  
"He doesn't care. He can't see us," John said. Probably untrue but completely immaterial.  
  



	7. Chapter 7

Harold was fascinated by the apartment and everything in it. The old furniture was an interesting mix. Most of it, he guessed, at least thirty years-old, older in some cases like the charming formica table. Harold idly wondered if the landlord was an older person or just a second-hand furniture shopper. He could see the whole studio from bed where he lay naked, waiting for John. The kitchen space in one corner, bathroom in the other. This is a place I could spend time in, he thought.  
  
Nothing in here had been chosen by John or was owned by him. Certainly not the orange curtains on the front windows, or the brown enameled cookware on the four-burner stove. Even so, Harold thought everything here resonated with his presence and he knew he'd remember these things for a long time.  
  
He felt a little high as if he'd been drinking wine; the amorousness of wine, the blurred edges and vivid colors.  
  
John emerged from the bathroom, a towel over his arm. Harold watched him and thought, the two of us are a very scarred pair. He didn't ask about the marks on John's skin or talk about his own. The scars existed in the present, ridges and shapes, part of their bodies' contours. Some time they would talk about them but today they'd already paid their dues to the past.  
  
Harold didn't question what the purpose was when John slid the towel under him.  
  
Though he adored the darkness of being blindfolded he also loved being able to see John now, his face, his body; how fluidly he moved, how his expression softened as he looked him over on the bed. He loved to see him becoming aroused, his cock thick and powerful-looking. To be surveyed, to be the source of that arousal made Harold feel like his body was a fiefdom. He watched him put on a black latex glove and squeeze lubricant into his gloved hand.  
  
"Turn on your side for me, Harold. Just like that. Very good," he said. "Close your eyes and hold the other pillow."  
  
Harold closed his eyes and hugged the extra pillow to his chest, immersing himself in the sensations of touch. John's un-gloved hand stroked his flank and held his buttocks apart. The broad hand holding him sent ease through his muscles, the slippery caress of a lubricated finger sent tremors. He wanted this and desire flowed through him for penetration.  
  
He had drifted deep and his lower body felt open and viscously wet when Harold heard the snap of the glove coming off. John lay down behind him and his cock was sliding through a river of warm lubricant, lodging at his hole.  
  
"It feels so good," John murmured close to his ear.  
  
It was like nothing else, no other feeling. John's cock felt massive between his cheeks but the smooth, moist head entered easily. Harold's body yielded as if his very bones were giving way, taking him in, in a slow wet glide. Harold panted with a shivering pleasure. John was hot against his back, his arm wrapped around him. They lay still for a time and Harold's chills quieted. He felt both cocooned and filled to overflowing, pinioned. John's chest against his back, his groin flush under him as if he were in his lap, warm thighs bent up under his own. The pleasure was overwhelming, radiating from inside outward through his genitals, his belly, his ass. He couldn't bear how good it felt and wished it could last forever.  
  
John fucked him slowly, caressing his arm, stealing under the pillow to cup and squeeze his breast, moving down over his stomach, between his legs. Harold's cock was soft and swollen and craving touch; being handled built up a pressure inside that crested with a rush of fluid jetting out of him. He didn't know if it was urine or sperm but he shuddered with the release of it squirting through his urethra. John's hand, soaked with it, held him tighter to urgent thrusts, breathing hard against his neck and shoulder.  
  
***  
  
John lay still. He lay still for a while, savoring his possession of all that was Harold. He lifted his sub's limp hand from the pillow and sucked on a finger, like the last morsel of a perfect meal. The finger wiggled weakly on his tongue.  
  
It was time to withdraw his cock, to move Harold before he could become stressed in this position. He wished they had the claw-foot tub here but the shower would have to do. He needed to get him to the toilet and let the copious infusion of lube and sperm spill out of him. John had made the choice to forego the condom. Each one's years of celibacy had some benefits. Their checklists had been thorough, including clean bills of health. John, as a pro, had been regularly tested. Harold had been tested because he was Harold, and it was the kind of fastidious person he was. Going forward, there would be no other partners. John felt certain of it now. Harold was his.  
  
Actions ordered in his mind, John estimated that in twenty to thirty minutes he'd have a clean, dry, contented Harold sound asleep in bed beside him. Twenty-eight minutes later he told him that he loved him and kissed him good night.  
  
"I think you know this," he said, petting him through the covers in the dark, the hills and valleys of him, all perfectly peaceful. "But I'll tell you anyway. I wanted you the minute I got a good look at you and I loved you the minute you asked me to kiss you."  
  
"Yes," Harold whispered.  
  
"Yes," John said, and kissed his sleepy lips.  
  
***  
  
Zoe wasn't taken completely by surprise when Nathan Ingram phoned her the day after the Valencia May Gala.  
  
The Valencia Gala was one of the less painful events Zoe attended as part of the on-going circuit of networking she did. The food was better, the setting and garb of the guests a few notches above average, and the Valencia jewelry on display, spectacular. Guests tended to show off pieces from their own collections. Zoe had a vintage Valencia diamond pendant sparkling at her throat.  
  
During the cocktail hour she was chatting with an editor she knew, pretending to be interested in his latest online venture when his eyes moved toward something going on behind her. She spared a glance and saw the source of a mild stir -- the entrance of her friends, Harold and John. The pair of them were hard to look away from.  
  
Harold shone. He was always impeccably dressed, well turned-out even for a casual lunch, but in the tux he was exquisite. He had the sheen of a polished gem. The man who was, no doubt, polishing him regularly was at his side. John had the kind of looks that always drew attention but tonight she thought he was … simply stunning.  
  
Zoe admired the way he maintained a protective perimeter around Harold, staying in almost constant physical touch without intruding on him or overshadowing him. Zoe considered it a virtuoso display of ownership. Every touch seemed to please Harold, who never strayed from John's side though he did not cling to him. She'd never seen him look so radiant. He gave her a bright smile from across the room when he saw her. John acknowledged her with a slight nod. He wore money well, she thought, for someone who didn't care much about it.  
  
"Who are they?" her friend asked. "Should I know them?"  
  
Zoe laughed, thinking not unless you'd been a client of John's or a colleague of Harold's at MIT. "Not famous," she said, "just good-looking. Excuse me."  
  
She made a quick detour through the opulent dining area to casually swap her name card for the one on the place-setting beside Harold's on her way to greet them. Summer Shaw, whoever she was, would be listening to the rest of the editor's online adventures over dinner.  
  
"Boys, so good to see you though I'm very surprised."  
  
"Olivia convinced John we should come," Harold said.  
  
"Olivia," she said. "As in Nathan's wife?"  
  
"She's very fond of John."  
  
"Is she? And Nathan … "  
  
"A work in progress," Harold said. Zoe saw John's hint of a smile. An alpha smile. He leaned closer to Harold as if to say something in his ear but just nudged his temple with a brush of his lips, which erased the beginnings of his partner's frown. "Ah well," Harold said. "I'm so glad you're here. I hope you're sitting with us."  
  
"Taken care of," she said.  
  
Nathan and his wife Olivia were also seated at their table, along with a number of people she knew by sight if not closely. Olivia did seem to like John a lot and Zoe found her much more animated and charming than she remembered from past events. Nathan was doing a poor job of covering his discomfort with the whole situation of his partner, plus one, in attendance. The dislike was mutual, Zoe thought, but John was much more adept at feigning indifference. She did catch a silent exchange between them at one point, regarding each other like granite cliffs across a rocky chasm. Nathan was the one who gave way, looking like he'd eaten something unpleasant.  
  
So the phone call was not that much of a surprise.  
  
Harold had never gone into detail or named names but she'd gleaned a lot from inferences. It was, in fact, her impression of the dynamic between Harold and Nathan that had convinced her to contact John. Nathan's name seemed likely to fill in the blanks when Harold spoke of a fleeting sexual relationship in his youth. He had told her he'd had a crush on someone. Had given much and gotten little in return. Ultimately, he said, he and the other person had remained friends. Zoe thought Nathan was still trying to exert a dominant's energy over Harold, wanting to keep him in the distant orbit around him, though in an unconscious and ham-handed way.  
  
In a way she couldn't fault Nathan. She was sure that Harold's energy had been irresistible to him as a teenager and that he'd wanted to keep it on tap through the years since. She'd felt the draw of it herself despite her preference for women: the lure of his sweetness, the depth of the attention he gave, his receptivity and responsiveness. When she'd told John she'd have done the session herself if she could, she was only being honest. But he was so purely drawn to male energy that there was no point.  
  
She'd known John for a while and had been aware of him seeking without finding what he wanted. To her, it seemed like a possible match. Harold deserved sensitive, skilled handling and John deserved a submissive partner worthy of him. A blind date was out of the question. Harold would be much too shy and John, well, she'd never known him to do that kind of thing. The session she arranged was the blind date. At the least, she'd thought, Harold would get a good session and a glimpse of possibilities. John would be none the worse for meeting such a lovely man. And if it went well, which it most definitely had, all the better. Now she needed to find the right sub for herself.  
  
"What can I do for you, Nathan?" she asked, sitting back at her desk. "It was nice to see you and Olivia, by the way."  
  
"I'd like to talk to you about our mutual friend, Harold. It would be better in person, I think, if you could meet me for coffee or a drink somewhere." Zoe thought he sounded as if he'd already had a drink.  
  
"Is something wrong?" she asked.  
  
"I'm worried about him. He's not acting like himself and I'm sorry to say, I think you may be partly responsible. You're the one, apparently, who introduced him to this person, John Riley."  
  
"You want to talk about Harold and John."  
  
"I don't like what I'm seeing and I'm not sure I trust him. Harold's always had a minor leaning toward men. I think Riley is taking advantage of it, of him. There's something rough about him, calculating. Frankly, he seems a little dangerous. I don't like the way he stands guard over Harold and he's thrust himself into our business."  
  
"Really," she said, noncommittally, interested to see where he was going.  
  
"Interviewing and hiring security people, insisting on equipment and resources. Zoe, Harold is a very wealthy man, worth a fortune. He's better off than the two of us put together, and frankly, he's naive and inexperienced when it comes to sexual matters. I can see him falling for someone like Riley but I don't understand what someone like that sees in Harold, besides money or these pricey security contracts. Is that the business he's in?"  
  
"Do you hear yourself, Nathan?" she said. "I'm sure John sees the same thing you see, a brilliant, beautiful man with the most generous heart in the world."  
  
"Of course I see those things, he's my best friend. He's incredibly generous and I don't want him to be used, or get hurt."  
  
"Of course you don't but Harold's in no danger from John. John adores him. You might be in danger from John, however, if you interfere."  
  
"I don't understand how this all came about. Why did you introduce them?"  
  
"I didn't just introduce them, Nathan. I set them up," she said. "I had two friends, both needed and deserved someone special and I thought it might be each other. I understand it's hard for you to give Harold up, but you're going to have to. He was never meant for you, Nathan."  
  
"You're totally misunderstanding me."  
  
"Am I? Sorry.  To me, they seem perfect together.  I'm afraid I don't really have much else to say on the subject but thanks for the offer of coffee. Maybe another time we can get together and chat. Take care, Nathan. Give my best to Olivia." After she hung up, she added, "See you at the wedding." It could happen, she thought, and that would definitely be an event worth attending.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ended up being a kind of fill in to precede some of the action in the previous chapter. Sometimes my mind just doesn't lay things out in the right order! Apologies if it seems like a step backwards.

Though John had gotten some satisfaction from every moment of psychic pain and discomfort he caused Nathan Ingram, it seriously backfired on him when he was trapped with him and Harold in the conference room to discuss revamping IFT security.

He vowed to himself it would never happen again, from here on out it would be just him, just Nathan. Harold would be kept at a safe distance. In the meantime he had to suffer Nathan taking out every ounce of his resentment on his partner.

John had laid out the security plans as succinctly and dispassionately as he could, with stats and comps from other major tech firms, a breakdown of suppliers and his recommendations. Nathan refused to look at him or engage with him directly. Instead he threw all his objections and finally what amounted to a tantrum at his partner. John sat forward at one point, ready to force the man to confront him and felt a light touch on his leg under the table. He looked at Harold who almost imperceptibly shook his head to restrain him. John sat back and forced his face and body into a semblance of impassivity as Ingram wound down.

"I don't know what's gotten into you, Harold. Did Denton Weeks really scare you? He's forceful but he's no bogey man. The scope of all this," he gestured at the material on the table. "It's ridiculous. A waste of time and money. Total paranoia. We want this contract -- you think the NSA won't notice if we start treating them like the enemy? We don't need to protect ourselves from the government."

The urge to deliver one swift punch that would knock Ingram out was like an itch John couldn't scratch. As good as it would feel, he knew Harold would never forgive him.

"I think we do," Harold said quietly, at last. His tone, his manner were demure. "Weeks did frighten me a little. We know how aggressively they pursue information they want and it's clear that they want more control over what we're doing. If you don't want to authorize IFT funds, I'll take care of it."

John was disturbed by this gentle response to Nathan's bullying, the way Harold was trying to placate him, but he understood that the weapons in Harold's arsenal were very different from his own.

Nathan glared at the table. Harold spoke again.

"We haven't upgraded security in years, Nathan. It needs doing. We should have the same level of protection our competitors have."

"Do whatever you want, Harold. You know what I think. If you want to proceed anyway, I'm not going to stop you," the man said.

"I'm authorizing it under John's direction," Harold said, almost whispering, and Nathan said nothing.

John saw how depleted Harold was. It depressed him that he was still so vulnerable to Ingram, like a tender spot where a splinter's come out but the skin still feels its ghost.

"Downstairs," he said as they left the conference room. Harold nodded without looking up.

As they passed the executive assistant's desk, John made eye contact with Carla and smiled.

Her smile was very warm in return.

Charming the staff wasn't his top priority but he didn't overlook it. The more people who looked on him and his relationship with Harold in a favorable light, the better. He didn't underestimate either how someone like Carla could make life easier for Harold. She'd do a better job of screening his calls, guarding his door, give his paperwork priority, and she'd keep his tea in stock.

In the short trip down one flight in the elevator, John was concerned that Harold was staring at the floor and when the doors opened he headed away directly to the office, toward the comfort of the foam mat on the desk.

A few days earlier Harold had surprised him with a suggested shorthand command of, "Desk?"

John had allowed it to see what Harold would do and watched him strip down to his open shirt, his boxers and stocking feet, waiting beside the desk when he'd finished, looking to him for direction. It had worked in that context.

It wasn't unusual for subs to develop this kind of shorthand, it had happened with clients he saw on a regular basis. Sometimes it meant they were eager to get to the part of a session they really wanted. Other times it meant they'd internalized commands, almost like a self-hypnosis. It could be useful if it triggered the effect John wanted to see. With Harold, today, he knew it would not. He was radiating distress and not ready for the darkness he was craving.

Harold had murmured the word, "desk," and was loosening his tie as he walked away from John. He leaned a hand on the desk when he reached it and toed off his shoes.

"Stop now," John said. Harold turned to look at him, surprised, a little hurt.

"Why?"

John didn't answer him. He walked to the armchair and sat down, centering himself and fully opening his senses to Harold. It wasn't easy to do at that moment, turning up the volume on a lot of things he didn't want to hear.

John saw shame in his submissive's posture, he saw sadness in his eyes and he could practically taste the flavor of guilt coming off him. Guilty toward me, he wondered, toward Nathan? The answer was probably both, he thought.

"Please take off your cufflinks, Harold. Put them in your jacket pocket."

"But I was going to do that," he said, meeting John's eyes only fleetingly.

"Were you?" he asked as gently as he could. "Please do it now and put your jacket on the chair." Harold looked miserable, his movements filled with resistance, but he performed the tasks.

"Now, I want you to take off your shirt." Harold was startled by this unaccustomed command and shot an accusing look at John who remained impassive.

He understood Harold was reluctant to do what he asked, and was provoking this deliberately. It would get worse, he knew, before it got better. Harold sometimes took comfort in keeping the upper half of his body covered and John was going to take the comfort away. The shirt came off slowly, resentfully.

John thought yet again, how good it would feel to put Nathan Ingram's lights out. Harold had defied him but it had cost him a lot.

John had to still the part of himself that wanted to rage.

"Now the undershirt, Harold." It was not always true, but often, that a dominant male was confident baring his chest while the submissive wanted to protect it, as a woman would. He'd indulged him. There wasn't a person alive without issues and he'd judged in the beginning that it was harmless to let Harold keep the covering when he was loath to let go of it. Now, John thought it might be important to understand why. Harold should always feel at ease showing every part of his body to him and he felt the time had come to confront whatever it was he was covering.

Harold removed the undershirt and stood with his arms crossed to cover his chest. He looked like he was close to tears. John issued a command he knew would push too far.

"Lower yourself to the floor and come to me on your hands and knees."

"I can't do this now, John." He was choking. "Oh god," he groaned, blinking, and covered his eyes, keeping his elbows pressed to his chest, turning away. John's impulse to comfort him was intense, but he held back. Whatever it was, had to come out.

"Turn around, please, and look at me." Harold turned toward him but couldn't uncover his eyes.

"I can't. I can't stand hurting him, John. He's my best friend and it feels like I'm betraying him." Now he uncovered his eyes, wiping them. Getting the words had helped but John could see there was more, he was still protecting his chest. "He's not strong, John. He's … oh god."

John steadied himself, telling himself he could take whatever this was. He'd hear it, it would pass, wash over him and pass.

"It didn't happen often," Harold said, looking a plea at him. John was both alarmed by what he thought he might be about to hear and relieved to see Harold was gradually lowering his arms to his sides. "Sometimes, if he'd been drinking and he found me alone he'd want me to touch him. Take care of him. I didn't lie when I told you I wasn't his … candy. Nathan never touched me. I'm so sorry. I don't know why I'm telling you this now. Upstairs, just now, I felt so sorry for him. And you … " his hand opened toward John as he spoke.

John's urge to feel Nathan's bones breaking under the impact of his fists began to bleed away in the wash of Harold's gaze, the energy of his open hand.

"You looked so … strong, John." Harold's voice had steadied. "Sitting there beside me. So … beautiful. It was killing him."

John swallowed, feeling the energy of Harold like an elixir. A suppressed smile teased at his mouth at the thought of his beauty killing Nathan. If only. He waited to see if more was coming but it seemed like the worst had surfaced and was dissipating. Harold's breathing was steady, his shoulders back and his hands relaxed. He was gazing calmly at John.

Feeling his own body free of restraint now, John got up from his chair to go to Harold, to hold him and stroke his naked back, his neck and up into his hair.

He didn't like to interject his own thoughts or feelings at times like this; it was counterproductive when his goal was to help Harold express himself. But this once, he'd speak his piece and hope for the best.

"Listen to me," he told him, relieved to feel Harold's arms come around him. "You can be his friend, you can be his business partner. That's all you can be. He's got a beautiful wife. He's cheated on her off and on for years and he has a new girlfriend. For a very long time he kept you hidden in his back pocket. He didn't reach in there a lot but he must have liked knowing he could." He kissed the side of his face lightly, brushing him with his lips. "Now he knows you're not there. You're not in anybody's pocket, Harold. You're walking around, shiny and handsome for everyone to see, next to me. It makes Nathan very, very cranky."

"I love you so much," Harold sighed, turning his face to John's, looking to be kissed.

Mouth dry from his unaccustomed long speech, John relished the moisture of Harold's pliant, silky mouth, kissing him for a while to luxuriate in him, luxuriate in what his. It was worth the burden of restraint Harold demanded of him. It was worth holding steady for him in the currents of emotion. And it was possible now to give him the retreat he needed.

He removed the rest of Harold's clothes, touching bare skin with pleasure. He tugged on his naked cock and kissed the smooth skin above it but didn't indulge in more than that. This wasn't a good time to focus sexually.

John helped him up onto the mat which he kept covered now with a flat sheet, fitted with military precision. It was calming to enact the small routines of settling Harold, adjusting the pillows. Because he was naked John used a second sheet to cover him before spreading the blanket that had migrated here from home into one of the desk's many drawers. He tucked the edges all around him so he'd feel embraced.

The new favorite blindfold was a black T-shirt of John's that Harold had asked for and John had given him. John secured it over his eyes and around his head; he shaped it along the sides of his nose to keep any light from leaking in. He turned out the lights.

John sat, hand resting on Harold's ankle, to watch him, to watch the time. He could only guess what he experienced in the darkness. Rest, he assumed, relief. He thought of it like a well Harold dipped into and replenished himself from. For John, the well that replenished him was Harold himself, his body, his spirit.

He kept touch at a minimum until it was time to draw him to the surface. He looked forward to it, especially to the moment he could kiss him again, touching where he was so alive and wet and warm.

A half hour later they were back upstairs. Passing Carla's desk, John saw her look at Harold with a surprised smile.

"What a beautiful tie, Harold. I didn't notice how lovely it was before. It really brings out the color of your eyes. Mrs Ingram came by a little while ago, she asked me to give you this. It's the invitation to the Valencia Gala. She really wants you both to attend."

 

***

A week later, the day after the Valencia Gala, John walked into Nathan's office and spread a stack of six photos on his desk..

"What's this about?" Nathan asked. John watched his eyes darting to the second picture. An attractive, dark-haired young woman with full lips and enigmatic eyes. Summer Shaw.

"Four of these people are corporate spies," John said. "Two of them are government agents. They all work here except this one," John touched her photo. "She's having an affair with a guy in upper management."

Nathan looked a challenge at him.

"Is this some kind of blackmail, Riley?" John held back his smile. He'd identified Nathan's girlfriend a while ago but now he knew her story.

"Why would I blackmail you, Nathan? You have nothing I want, and for her sake, I hope your wife never knows what an asshole she's married to. This woman," he tapped the photo, "is a freelancer hired by Logan Pierce to keep tabs on his competition. If you keep seeing her, which I recommend you don't, don't bring her here and scan for bugs after your dates. The rest of these people, you need to find a reason to let go of."

"Are you finished?"

John gauged the heat burning behind Nathan's eyes and thought he could probably goad him into taking a swing at him -- giving himself a good excuse to unleash the pounding he'd love to deliver. But … Harold. He'd know. So, instead of feeding the flames he glanced at his watch and smiled.

"Done," he said, and left the man to fume by himself.

John had wondered about Shaw. She wasn't true to type for Ingram, like steel under a thin veneer of softness. He'd gotten close enough to her at the gala to clone her cell; a handy bit of hacking technology he had Harold to thank for. The man knew everything there was to know about exploiting a phone.

Now he touched his new earpiece; a device superior to the versions available when stealth had been his bread and butter. He'd turned it off while he was in Nathan's office and now turned it back on.

"Are you there, Harold?"

"Always." John could hear the ambient sounds of the server room where he knew Harold was at work in the light of his multiple screens.

"I'm on my way down."


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's so difficult to write right now with the series finale staring us in the face. I struggled with this happier world of sexual fulfillment and problems that have yet (and may never) reach the dire proportions now faced as the series comes to a close. Hope it isn't too raggedly written or emotionally out of place for all my fellow lovers of Harold and John.

Shaw was pretty sure she'd been made. The target's boyfriend. She had a feeling he had her pegged. Goodbye paycheck. She'd sensed all along that he was something more than a pretty face. When he happened to stop and look at his phone, standing not far from where she was seated among the rich and not-so famous, an itchy sixth sense told her he was onto her.

She operated at a deficit where emotions were concerned but her radar was spot on and it was pinging the tall, dark, badass in the tux as some kind of agent. NSA plant maybe, to safeguard or spy on the genius. Private security? That was definitely possible -- he had that former military look she associated with Blackwater types. Whatever he was, she had to admit he was doing a good job of looking real with Finch. Some kind of chemistry going on there. Maybe he's fallen for him, she thought. Shit happens.

The food wasn't bad and she commandeered thirds from a startled waiter even though her dress didn't have a lot of expansion room at the waist. She had a long view on the IFT guys and caught a couple looks from her Prince Charming. He had to scan the room to find her. He didn't look like he was having much fun. No surprise, he hated the boyfriend. And he wouldn't be happy about that chick Zoe pulling a seating switch. Ingram, so clueless. She didn't mind fucking him but wouldn't miss the part where she had to act like he was a whole lot better at it than he was. She was getting pretty sick of Logan Pierce too. Money or no money, the guy was super needy. So it wouldn't be such a bad thing to move on. She'd make her last report, collect her last paycheck, then good bye Summer.

She did wonder what the deal was with Zoe Morgan. She'd watched her switch the name cards and it piqued her interest. Shaw had already planted a bug on Ingram and was just as happy not to have to play footsie with him under the table during dinner. She got a little info out of her new table-mates about the leggy brunette but thought she might do some surveillance on her own.

 

***

Harold didn't mind the physical workouts but what he liked most about the mild exercise regime was being with John in the gym before starting the rest of his day. He felt like a part of John's world. In the very beginning, John was right there, showing him exactly what he wanted him to do, molding and positioning him into the postures he wanted him to practice. Now Harold could do these things on his own but there was always the possibility John would come adjust his stance, or offer praise. Never sex, not in the gym. Though he never came right out and said it was forbidden, Harold observed that he avoided sexual contact here.

Harold liked the exercise ball, like an out-sized kid's toy. One morning, after completing his careful roll across the top of it he rested on his knees with it under his chest, his head on his folded arms, enjoying the buoyant support and release of tension from his core. He heard John's light tread across the mat and realized with a clutch of his pelvic muscles just how blatantly he was displaying himself. He tensed a little, wondering if John thought he was doing it deliberately, if he disapproved or …

"Stay like that," John said, lowering next to him on the mat.

Of course he doesn't disapprove, Harold thought, hearing the desire in John's voice. He approves too much, which is why I should be more careful not to distract him while he's working.

"Try to hold still," John said. He sounded amused but he lay a hand on Harold's back to steady him.

Harold was already feeling excited in anticipation of being touched. John's hand slid up the back of his thigh and between his legs. He cupped his balls and nudged at his swelling penis with his fingertips, pushing it this way and that in the loose warmth of his sweatpants. Harold's eyes closed and the darkness behind his eyelids seemed to deepen as John's hands took charge of him. He was getting very hard and not exactly able to remain still. Then he heard John sigh rubbing up between the cheeks of his ass and back down to the head of his penis, touching him in a way that felt so good Harold couldn't help but thrust into his hand.

***

John knew he shouldn't let himself start. He was always aware of Harold in the gym and sometimes aroused by watching him. He kept track of his progress, which was excellent, and felt proud of the effort he put into his workouts. Finishing up the last of his own chores he saw him on his knees, his round butt waving a little bit as he leaned into the support of the exercise ball. He's resting, he told himself, let him be. But he couldn't. The small body, prone, called out to him. He was imagining the feel of him through the soft fleece before he ever touched him. Just a little, he thought.

Just a little wasn't enough. Even a lot wasn't enough for John who couldn't resist the feel of Harold in his hands or how deeply he responded. He toyed with him much longer than he intended to. The unsteadiness of the ball was making Harold's movements enticing but the pose was too unstable to support him for fucking. For now what John wanted was to make him come, give him an orgasm worthy of being teased for too long. Much too long, John thought, feeling the dampness where his sub was dripping.

John considered the strength and thickness of the fleeced jersey pants. Sturdy, he thought. They were new enough to retain their downy lining which he knew felt good to Harold's skin. He'd never known a sub who did not love to be suspended and he thought Harold, with his sensitivity to pressure and helplessness would respond very well.

"Soon," he told him. He stood over him and began to roll up the excess cloth of Harold's sweatpants along the back seam and between his legs until the material pulled tight around his whole crotch, adjusting the tension until Harold groaned and squirmed in the confines of the harness he'd created.

"Hold onto the ball and keep the tops of your feet on the floor," John said and watched to make sure he complied. He wanted Harold's upper body to be supported but to keep him from using his feet to hold himself up.

He lifted him, one hand near his waist and the other clutching the fabric tensed between his legs. He lifted until Harold's knees were off the floor and he was supporting all of his lower body weight in his hands. The pressure it created on Harold's cock and balls when he pulled higher from the back made him cry out and gasp, twisting suspended in the improvised sling. John felt very powerful giving him this. He was rewarded by his whimpers and writhing; watching him come, jerking him upward harder from behind. Harold gave it up beautifully, helplessly, struggling in the sling and venting deep cries of pleasure.

He let him down when the last shudders ended, his body finally limp, and got down beside him on the mat to help him into the well of his lap. The suspension had been short in duration but intense and Harold was shaky in his arms.

"All right?" John asked him, kissing the side of his face.

"I loved it," he said, his voice still raspy.

"That's good, so good," John murmured. He was very aroused by what he'd done to Harold and leaned him back against his arm so he could look at him, see his face, sweat-damp and peaceful. His own need to come was hovering in his groin, his hard-on warm against Harold's side.

He pushed aside the elastic waistband of his own pants, down under his sac, freeing himself. Harold's sleepy gaze sparked with interest. John took his hand, kissed the palm and licked it, and then he lifted it to Harold's mouth.

"Spit."

He watched his effort to cull moisture in his mouth and manage an offering of saliva. He closed Harold's wet hand around the head of his cock. "Hold it just like that," he told him. He slid his hand into his sub's much-abused pants to find semen for lubrication and in minutes, holding Harold close against him he stroked himself to orgasm into the clinging fist.

***

John had streamlined his schedule, combining some classes to give himself more flexibility with his time. Now he wanted to hire an assistant instructor, someone who could step up and manage things so he could hand the place over when he needed to. The time was coming when they'd need to bail out.

Owen Matthews was the best candidate who'd applied for the job. He made an unlikely first impression: small-statured, glasses, sort of adorably nerdy-looking. Though these were qualities John found generally appealing, he had his doubts until he put him through his paces. The kid was scrappy and had some decent moves, smart technique. He also had impressive academic credentials and a good measure of confidence.

John put him through a rigorous workout and a series of attacks, made him sweat, and by the end Owen had impressed him with his endurance.

"You're good," John told him. "Honestly, you look like you'd be more at home in front of a computer than in the gym. It works in your favor." They were both breathing hard by then and Owen laughed.

"Thanks, man. I got beat up one too many times as a kid and had to figure out how to take care of myself. I make my real living as a freelance programmer. This would keep me in shape and I could pass along some of my moves."

John thought he'd make a good teacher.

"I'm going to check out your references and background info pretty thoroughly, Owen. I like to know exactly who's working for me. If everything checks out you'll have the job." John saw the tell of a nose crinkle, and Owen adjusting his glasses. "Something you want to tell me?"

"Funny story. When I was a senior in high school there was a misunderstanding about my use of the computer lab. The authorities might have been involved briefly. "

"What did you hack, Owen?"

"Nothing critical, some old FBI files. I was trying to write a decent history paper and it's possible I went a little too far. I'm kind of a history buff."

"Well, like I said. I'll take a look and be in touch."

 

***

Harold … Wren. It was a more complete persona than Harold Crane. Wren had funds as well as real estate. Sparrow also was fleshed out and owned a number of properties through a series of shell corporations.

"Safe identities," John had said to him. "Safe houses." One of Wren's properties was the building that housed Riley's Gym.

Wren, Crane, Osprey, Sparrow. When he needed a break from … the machine, as he now thought of his project, he fine-tuned them.

John had paid a visit to Harold's apartment and found it riddled with embedded surveillance. To clear it, he said, they'd have to gut it. The gym building was still clear but monitored from the outside. Harold was learning to spot the agents, to recognize the cars on the street. John seemed to think the time was coming they might have to move.

The studio was on the warm side, even with its little air conditioner humming, but they were home and that always felt good to Harold. John had come to get him at work, as he did every day if he weren't already on site. They'd gone over Owen Matthews' background together.

"The software you trashed would come in handy right about now," John had said.

"Don't. If you're thinking it would be a good tool for us to keep to ourselves. Don't," Harold said, surprised by how much the thought of it upset him. It was too close to the problems with code he was still having. He felt John's hands on his shoulders, soothing.

"Is Matthews safe?" he asked and Harold focused on the task at hand.

The young man certainly had a deep online presence. Harold plumbed the hacking incident John had mentioned and found the agency's file. Interesting. They'd been keeping loose tabs on him ever since. Owen Matthews's social network posts contained buried links to deeper layers.

"He's a gifted boy. The FBI tried to recruit him after college. They still have an open file but not much activity in it. I think your young friend is more interested in stockpiling bitcoins with his gaming ventures. He's working freelance for a number of different game developers."

"Good."

"Maybe not entirely legally," Harold added.

"A good diversion for prying eyes, good leverage."

"I'm not sure I'm comfortable with using him like some kind of bait."

"An asset, Harold. Don't worry. I'll keep an eye on Mr Matthews. He'll be good for the gym."

Now they were home and the colorful cartons from Harold's favorite Chinese restaurant were open on the table. For two months now he'd lived in the studio with John. He wondered if any other place would ever feel as perfect or safe. He watched John spear a dumpling he suspected was meant for him … and it was. He opened his mouth to be fed. There was a certain look in John's eyes that Harold associated with these intimate dinners. An erotic attention, sometimes just an undercurrent, sometimes intense. At first he'd wondered (always after the fact, not when it was happening) if it was odd that John liked to feed him and … that he liked to be fed. After giving it some thought he was able to reference any number of literary allusions to the eroticism of eating, the focus on the mouth. Not odd or unusual.

Harold spent little time wondering what was odd or unusual, normal, not normal about his relationship with John anymore. Zoe had been very helpful with that. She'd laughed at him when he confessed his fear that he was too selfish with John.

"He spends so much time … well, taking care of me and then minutes on himself."

"Trust me. He's getting exactly what he wants. You give more than you know. When you think John's pleasing you he's actually pleasing himself. The more he controls, the happier he is."

He does seem happy, Harold thought. If only he could freeze their lives here, like this. His difficult afternoon at work was the underpinning of this wish. The alarming response of the machine to his latest upgrades, as if it were alive. He became aware of staring into his rice and vegetables, losing the thread of happiness he'd been trying to hold just the moment before.

"What?" John said, as if Harold had spoken aloud.

"Just work," he said.

***

John didn't press Harold for details about "just work." He'd felt a hint of his tension earlier at IFT but thought it was a passing thing, bad memories he'd triggered by mentioning the software. Now he saw it was something more. He couldn't begin to solve or even comprehend Harold's challenges but he could stop the mental wheels from spinning out of control, give him some relief.

Not a full wrap, he thought. It was too warm. The essentials would be enough. The eyes and ears, the jaw and neck. Hands and feet. For the rest … he'd shave him though he knew there wouldn't be even the ghost of hair to remove. Harold loved the particular slow careful touches of this ritual so much that more than once John had shaved his bare skin without a blade just to give him the sensations. It could all be accomplished on the bed with a towel under him.

Wherever it was they ended up living next John planned to invest in some equipment. The studio was too small for the things he had in mind; a table like the one in the Rose Room, a suspension apparatus. For now he was content. Harold was essential, the rest was window dressing.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting as I cower before the oncoming finale. Tonight they end it and we'll be left to pick up the pieces. Sigh. Good luck to all who see this before the fact and condolences (likely) to those who find this afterwards.

Joss Carter had a mess on her hands; a trio of busted up Russian thugs in holding and a fourth one at the hospital. Two crime scene vehicles. One, a wrecked SUV planted in a grassy median on the West Side Highway near the Tribeca Bridge. The second was a stolen BMW sedan now wedded to the SUV's front end.

She was not amused to find a knot of officers and detectives gathered to watch and re-watch a traffic cam video. Her partner Fusco queued it up.

"You're not gonna believe this shit," he said, earning a grimace from her. She watched the stolen BMW speed into the frame and side-plow the front end of the SUV, forcing it up onto the median.

"It gets better," he said. The BMW driver leaps out of the vehicle while it's still shuddering from impact and in a savage blur disarms and disables three men emerging from the wreckage. He assaults a fourth that he drags through a busted window. Then he carefully extracts a fifth person from the SUV who appears unharmed. At that point the scene is overrun by emergency responders.

One bright spot, the owner of the BMW, apparently satisfied with damages paid, had declined to press charges. She'd been through the statements. An attempted abduction. Motive seemed clear, the little guy the Russians grabbed was a very wealthy man, but kidnap for ransom didn't fit the Russian mob profile and that made the whole thing murky for Carter.

She looked through the window of the interview room where John Riley and Harold Finch were waiting for her to sign off on their statements. If it weren't for his bloody knuckles it would be hard to believe that the guy holding his friend in the circle of his arm and tilting a water bottle up for him to drink from was the same one who'd beaten the Russians to a pulp, using moves she hadn't seen outside of special forces training. She watched him lift his friend's hand to examine his wrist and then kiss it. So that's how it is, she thought, waiting until he was done to enter the room.

When Riley looked up she almost took a step back from the ice in his eyes. It was only too easy now to see he was the guy in the video.

"Is there a problem, officer," he asked her. His soft voice was a little unnerving.

"Mr … Riley," she said, glancing down at the paperwork and summoning her own training. "You stole a car and used it as a weapon against another vehicle on a major public thoroughfare. You assaulted four men, one of whom is in the hospital, three are in need of medical attention. It would make my life a lot easier if even one of them had landed a punch or actually drawn his weapon. I understand the duress you were under but you recklessly endangered yourself, your friend, and the public at large." She waited.

"So … am I in trouble?" he asked.

"I don't know, you tell me. You fight like you've had military training but they don't teach moves like that in the regular army."

There was a commotion behind her and a tall, well-dressed, blond man appeared at her side, "Officer, please. I'm here for my partner, Harold Finch." She turned, not happy to be interrupted and saw he was trailed by a covey of lawyers, unmistakable in their high-priced suits, briefcases in hand.

Carter had reservations about Riley. She wasn't ready to cast Russian mobsters engaged in the commission of a crime as victims, but someone like John Riley, who could unleash that kind of violence, was a dangerous commodity. Ex-army herself, ex-wife to a troubled vet, she knew only too well how tragic the failure to adapt to civilian life could be. She eyed the water bottle on the table, wondering what his prints would turn up if she had it dusted. At the last minute he slid it into his pocket.

If he were just a jacked-up bodyguard she would have charged him, abduction or no abduction. Private security wasn't above the law -- but she could see how it was for him. He'd acted to protect his friend like she would have acted to protect her son. On balance, that's why she let him go without further questioning. That and the half dozen lawyers breathing down her neck.

"Mr Riley, Mr Finch, I think we're done here," she told them. "We'll be in touch if we need anything more."

She turned her attention to the Russians. It was going to be a long night.

***

It was nearing the end of September. They'd only been in the new place for a few weeks, an industrial loft in Chelsea that Harold had chosen because it reminded him of the Chinatown studio, if on a bigger scale. He had covered the loft's massive windows in orange curtains. Though these were custom creations of raw silk, not the polyester blend ready-made kind that hung in the studio, he still felt it made the loft feel more like home.

Generally indifferent to the space, John did like one feature of the loft, the claw-foot bathtub, for Harold. When they got home from the police station one of the first things he did was start the water running. The next was to give him a dose of his pain medication. Harold took it though he'd mostly weaned himself from it in the time they'd been together.

The rising steam smelled like herbs and oats, a bath blend Zoe had given Harold as a housewarming gift. The oats turned the water silky and Harold found the herb scents soothing. He was slowly uncurling in the warmth. John, sitting on the floor beside the tub, was still fully dressed. His sleeves were rolled up but getting wet at the edges. He was stroking Harold's thigh under water.

"It was my fault, not Nathan's," Harold said at last, staring down into the water. 'You warned me often enough about the danger of routines."

"Not your fault, Harold, or Nathan's. Mine for not keeping track of where you were meeting." They had been around this a number of times, each knowing the other would continue to blame themselves despite what was said.

Once Nathan had accepted reality with some measure of grace, John had tacitly approved his weekly lunches with Harold. It was better for Harold to have peace than strife so John accepted it. He knew they'd be more comfortable without him visibly in the background so he had left it to his staff to provide security for those meetings. As always, however, Harold was a presence in his ear.

The Russians had lain in wait, the SUV hidden behind a bogus delivery truck blocking the alley beside the bistro. It was broad daylight but the closest street cam was disabled. The guy on security detail was taken down by two of the Russians and left behind on the street. John, across town, alerted by the sound of Harold's surprised and alarmed voice, the sound of scuffling, acted instantly. He helped himself to the first available car and headed, without hesitation, the wrong way down several one way streets to intercept the path of Harold's GPS signal.

"Nathan was waiting for me in the restaurant. The man showed me a tourist map and asked for directions. The next thing I knew I was grabbed from behind. It happened so fast."

John had heard his description of the events many times by then but listened as carefully as he had the first time. He listened for changes in Harold's voice; for the pain medication to kick in and for any new detail.

"When they smashed my phone I thought it was over, John. I thought you wouldn't be able to find me." His voice broke a little as it always did when he got to this part. "But my watch. I remembered my watch."

"You had your watch," John said, trying to reassure with his voice and his touch. He kissed the first part of him he could reach, a wet knee leaning up against the side of the tub. "But Harold, even without the watch, I'd have found you."

"You would find me," he sighed.

"Always, no matter what. I'd never stop looking until I found you." Or died trying, John thought. 

"I knew it was you John. When we crashed." This was new and drew all John's focus.

"I didn't tell the police this but I knew it was you coming for me. In the dark, when they covered my head, it was like you were already with me. I had my watch and I knew you would come."

He'd found Harold curled up in tarps on the floor in the back of the SUV, wrists zip-tied and a loose black bag over his head. He'd been waiting for a sign that the hood they'd put on him hadn't destroyed the darkness for Harold, hadn't turned a mental refuge for him into a place of fear. Now he knew for certain it hadn't and his relief was intense.

"You were good, so good to trust me, to feel me with you." He kissed his knee again and rested his cheek there.

His hand wandered down the smooth inside of Harold's thigh. He had no intent to arouse him, just a desire to caress his soft skin. Harold spread his thighs apart to accommodate, making himself accessible to touch.

John absorbed Harold's increasing relaxation as he pet him, roaming the soft curves of his body. He began to let go of his own shielded tension; breathing it out in the herb rich air of the bath. His training rendered him calm in crisis mode. His emotional release was a careful thing, after the fact, in safety.

The biggest challenge for him had been making sure he stopped the SUV without causing more injury than necessary to the people inside, one of whom was precious and vulnerable. But better for Harold to be injured than be lost. He had to assume he'd be in the back, away from the impact. The fighting had barely registered in his mind, the men were just obstacles between him and his goal.

He found Harold's hand underwater and lifted it up to examine his wrist yet again. Harold wiggled a finger at him and John accepted the invitation.

He sucked on Harold's wet fingers, one by one, and in the process an ache in his chest began to let go.

Harold watched him with loving eyes.

"You found me," he said. His voice was a little fuzzy with pain medication but the sound of his trust and the affection in his gaze were rich food for John. He looked from Harold's eyes slowly downward, lingering on his lips, to his body wavering in the water's reflections. The cock he'd been idly caressing was now angling up his belly and this was a good sign, that his beloved submissive felt secure enough to become aroused.

There were things John still wanted to accomplish that night but not more important than lying down with Harold and holding his hips steady in his hands to kiss his stomach, his thighs, to suck him, to lick little traces of faint oat flavor from the creases in his skin. Harold was half asleep when John coaxed the gentlest of orgasms from him before tucking him into their bed.

He watched and waited until he was sure that Harold was sound asleep before moving on. There were items to be retrieved from his jacket that would never be tagged into evidence by the police: Harold's broken phone, a burner phone he'd taken off the man he'd dragged through the window and a business card he'd snatched with the phone.

He called Zoe.

"I need you to come stay with Harold. Bring the little dog."

 

***

Formerly Summer, Zoe's little dog had been a spy for Logan Pierce. She now worked part-time for John and slept most nights at the foot of Zoe's bed.

She had begun her surveillance of Zoe after the Valencia Gala and after giving notice/getting fired by Logan Pierce. Zoe fascinated her. It was more than her looks, it was a look she had. An air of power about her that Shaw was drawn to. It was a magnetic pull to certain … desires. She was doing a crap job of surveillance and knew it because she was too eager, too turned on and taking too many chances.

The night she got caught she was tucked in the shadows of a recessed doorway; the lower, unused entrance to a brownstone building on a tree-lined street. It was the third night in a row she'd come back to listen. The sound quality from her bug was scratchy, poor amplification, but she was able to make out the sound of someone moaning in pleasure, goaded by the steady thwap of what sounded like … what the hell was it? Leather strap maybe, not a whip, not a sharp sound.

Her mind was paging through a catalogue of erotic possibilities when she was hoisted straight up in the air by the seat of her pants and the back of her jacket.

She twisted hard and almost managed to deliver a kick and an elbow to the gut before she caught a glimpse of who'd grabbed her. Shaw stopped struggling. Riley, that was his name, she thought, what the fuck?

"What the hell are you doing here?" she demanded in a whisper. Okay, make sense, she told herself. Zoe knew them or she wouldn't have switched up the name cards.

"Flushing you out."

"You can let go now, asshole, I'm not fighting."

"Upstairs," he said, still grasping the back of her jacket though she was more or less going willingly, thinking it was as good a chance as any to get closer to her target. "We're going to have a talk," he told her.

They went through the front door and inside to a pleasant foyer, like a waiting room. He patted her down thoroughly. He took her wallet and keys, her phone and earbud, found the piece strapped to her ankle, her knife, a small mace dispenser, and two chocolate bars.

"I'm not working for Pierce anymore," she volunteered. "Thanks to you. Thank you, by the way."

"Working for anyone else?" he asked, paging through her phone.

"Currently unemployed." He gave her face a once over that she recognized as kin to her own radar.

"You're not lying. Your interest in Zoe?"

"What do you think?" She got another dose of his x-ray vision, this one full body, and when it reached her crotch it felt like he was measuring the heat between her legs.

"If you're interested in Zoe, try chocolate, flowers, maybe some wine. Creeping around, listening to things that are none of your business is a very bad idea. I'm letting a little dog go this time," he said fixing her with his gaze.

Shit. He'd been through her stuff. He was still measuring her up with those flinty eyes. "If you show up here again, uninvited, you won't like what happens. Pain doesn't always … feel good." He handed her things back, which surprised her.

"Flowers or wine?" she asked, shoving her stuff back into her pockets. He gave her the kind of look she was used to that meant she'd said something that didn't sit right with normal types.

"Whatever it is," he said, "don't deliver it in person and remember, no means no."

Big jerk, she thought, but she sort of liked him at the same time.

***

When Zoe had contacted him about a cute girl with big dark eyes and a ponytail tailing her around town he agreed to look into it for her.

"You're in the security business now. If you can find out what her story is I'd be obliged," she said. "And frankly, you owe me one, John."

He did owe her and he was very surprised to discover who the girl was.

He didn't bother to take Shaw's weapons off her when he nabbed her because he'd already seen the arsenal in her apartment. He'd also searched the hard drive on the laptop she kept hidden behind a very ugly piece of artwork in her otherwise drab apartment. It revealed a lot about her freelance spy-for-hire PI business. It had yielded up even more about her erratic history. Med school, the military. She'd had great successes followed by abrupt failures. It made little sense until he uncovered the medical issue. Very rough break for a very smart … puppy, he thought, coming across her stash of porn. It explained a lot about her interest in Zoe Morgan. Zoe radiated exactly the kind of energy that would be irresistible to a little dog. But he had to be sure.

When he confronted her face to face, he was sure. It occurred to him that if she hadn't been half dazed by lust he might not have been able to corner and subdue her so easily. After he sent her packing, he told Zoe what he'd learned about her secret admirer. The following day Zoe received a gift basket with chocolates, wine, and flowers and a note with contact info that read, "Please."

When the girl was taken in hand by Zoe, John offered her a job. Now he trusted her above anyone but himself to guard Harold.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My knowledge of technology is ... approximately non-existent. So, forgive. I meant this story to be a couple of chapters worth of exploring a dominant John and it's turned into the AU that ate Manhattan, rapidly outpacing my writing abilities with action, technology, plotting, the whole nine yards. I keep hoping to wrap it up and it keeps expanding. I'm seriously going to try to beat it into submission and end it soon!

It was four in the morning when Harold woke up.

He lay beside John who was on the bed but not in it, visible in the low illumination of the night-light between their bed and the bathroom. Harold's medication always made sleep possible but not always peaceful, bringing odd dreams. He'd dreamt that Zoe had been in John's place in the bed. In the dream John had gone away. It gave him a strange, unsettled feeling. Looking at John was the antidote to all bad things so he inched closer to gaze at his profile, to soothe himself. Then he stared. Even in the low light, up close he could see scrapes and bruises on his cheek and brow that weren't there the night before.

With a sickening certainty he understood that he hadn't dreamt about Zoe. She'd been there. Probably her girlfriend too, a somewhat frightening young woman. John had gone out and left him with them. He'd waited deliberately until Harold was asleep and gone out to do something that resulted in this damage to his face, something he must have known Harold wouldn't want him to do.

Harold was angry and it was a new and painful feeling to experience toward John. Angry that he wasn't leaving the investigation to the police. Angry that he had circumvented and literally left him in the dark by taking action while he slept.

John was passed out cold, fully dressed on the bed. He looked utterly exhausted, banged up and bruised, and Harold's anger, his impulse to wake him up and confront him was evaporating. He suspected that even awake he couldn't have stopped him, but he would have tried. The things John had done … what the detective had said. So brave but so dangerous. He knew John would attempt anything to protect him but this, was this necessary?

Harold saw the soldier in him as he gazed at his face, very youthful in sleep. He could easily imagine him in uniform, battle-weary, stealing sleep. He could also see the shadow soldier, the one trained to carry out missions in secrecy. No longer in uniform but still engaging in violence, his sleep stolen in some anonymous hotel room wearing a crumpled suit. It was an ache in Harold's heart to know he was the reason John was living this life again.

He backed carefully and quietly out of bed. He took John's shoes off him and covered him with the comforter, picked his jacket up from the floor and feeling its weight, checked the pockets. John's phone … two others, the card.

In the light of his screens Harold examined these things and then set to work. His phone was crushed but he was able to retrieve his personal data. Nothing relating to what had happened. The burner yielded a few phone numbers he could work with, texts, GPS coordinates; movements since activation. Harold mapped them. It was more disturbing than he anticipated to follow the path that intercepted his location … where he'd stopped to help a stranger with directions.

Queasiness rose from his gut and he shut his eyes, fear like an eddy drawing him in. He opened his eyes and forced in a deep breath. He looked at the burner phone, the business card as if they were a task that lay before him, like lowering himself to the floor. Necessary actions. There was information here, some clue might exist in these two pieces of evidence that could help.

Harold had no illusion that he could keep John from endangering himself by pleading for his safety. He might, however, be able to discover something that could help him, make him safer. It had to be done. He shifted his focus, viewing the underlying puzzle and not his part in it.

***

John woke to the sound of a whistling kettle; it meant Harold was making tea. His eyes opened and he immediately searched for him. He was there by the stove and the whistle of the kettle was fading into steamy whispers.

He could feel some new aches, reminders of the night, but most of his attention was directed toward Harold. With his penchant for John's clothing, Harold had rescued a flannel shirt that John had left in the closet when they packed up to move. Worn out, soft; John had dressed him in it once like a night shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to fit. He wore it now. It hung on him, the tails reaching his knees in front and back. John loved seeing him in it, the vicarious closeness to his body.

He was up off the bed and on his way to him, wanting to gather the softness in his arms, when Harold turned toward him and stopped him with a look. Not angry, exactly. But not the welcome he was used to or expecting.

Right, John thought. He knows. Harold's unhappy gaze made him very aware of the injuries to his face.

Both laptops were lit up and active at the end of the long dining table, a remnant of the loft's first life where John imagined workers once handled enormous bolts of fabric. It separated the kitchen from the living and sleeping spaces. At a glance he saw the phones and assumed the card was there too.

"You're a mess," Harold said, resting his hand on the counter where his tea was steeping. John heard enough affection, enough forgiveness in his voice to continue toward him. Harold wasn't shielding himself with his arms or turning away. A good sign, even if his expression was cautious.

John went down on his knees in front of him to hold his hips and press his face to his stomach through the cloth, partly to keep him from scrutinizing his face too closely and partly because it would feel so good. He was relieved to hear Harold's little "ah" sound of pleasure and the suggestion of surrender in the micro-motion of his hips.

"We need to talk," Harold said, gently. "Why don't you shower and change those clothes. I'll make coffee."

"Deal," John said, though he sighed with reluctance to let go. Shower was a definite need, coffee yes, talk was necessary but he wanted this, feeling Harold's budding erection under his lips. Harold's hand on his head warned him to stop, sliding down his cheek to hold him away. Not good. John sat back, looking up into serious blue eyes and agreed, "Shower."

The bumps and bruises weren't too bad as he took inventory, soaping himself in the cascade of hot water. The loft shower was a generous size and had two shower heads. Not useful, from his point of view. If they showered together he didn't want Harold to be that far away.

He thought back through the night, what he could reveal and what to keep to himself. His first stop had been Owen's East Village apartment where he'd let himself in, hoping the kid could get intel from the burner phone. Owen was willing to help, once he'd finished whining about the rude awakening. He was able to determine where the phone had been purchased. It was enough to get John to the Brighton Beach neighborhood. His footwork had turned up the likeliest bar to find the information he was looking for. Stirring up enough trouble to get shown to the back room was no problem. The rest was … unexpected. It turned out he wasn't the only one looking to make trouble for the Russians in the middle of the night.

The party crashers were heavily armed, lead by a guy who looked familiar to John, with a distinctive scar on his face. He was pretty sure he'd seen him at the police precinct, in uniform. A crooked cop.

"Saw your handiwork in the bar," the guy said, with a tilt of his head. "Thought it might be you. Step away now and you won't get hurt. My boss has a few questions he'd like you to answer."

"Funny, I had a few questions for Mr Yogorov here, and we weren't done talking." Yogorov grunted under the pressure of John's hold. The mob patriarch, bound and bloodied, was face down on his fancy desk. John was satisfied that the man didn't know the identity of the contractor who'd hired him, but thought he was still holding something back.

"Step away," the man with the scar repeated and John saw in his eyes it was the last time he'd say it. So he raised his hands and moved clear. He heard the kill shot behind him and kept moving on through the bar and out to the street. He saw a car at the corner ahead, engine running, two guys stationed beside it that hadn't been there when he arrived. One of the men beckoned to him but John shook his head, already backing in the opposite direction and he slipped quickly into the shadows of the closest alley. No one followed.

Turf war, nothing he wanted any part of. It was time to get home.

He stepped out of the shower and as he dried himself he decided Harold didn't need to know those details. He couldn't hide that he'd been in a fight but more than that he was unwilling to burden him with.

Jeans, a t-shirt, a long sleeved shirt, no need for Harold to look at bruises. The face was bad enough when he checked in the mirror. Nothing to be done about it but a quick shave to render it less feral. John would have liked to come from the shower without his clothes, to lure Harold into his naked arms, and feel the flannel-covered softness against him … everywhere. The ache of long delayed desire was worse than any of his souvenirs from the bar fight.

The coffee smelled good. Harold set a mug of it on the table.

John was disappointed that Harold chose to step away and stand by the counter with his tea but accepted the message that he wouldn't be deterred or interrupted by fondling.

"We know the Russians were doing the work for someone else," Harold said. "I … think I know who."

John was stopped in his tracks. He'd thought he was about to get a lecture on danger, about deception. Now he realized that Harold hadn't gathered the things from his pocket to accuse him with but to work on.

"You know because … you're very good with computers," he said, feeling how wrong it was to ever underestimate the brilliance that was Harold.

"The texts, there were two on the phone. I was able to pinpoint the origin although someone went to considerable lengths to disguise it. I broke the encryption. An address in Arlington. I recognized the style of encryption, it was as significant as the location. Together they point toward a government source. But I don't understand why they'd do it. Why, when I'm already doing the work for them."

"To scare you. An excuse to monitor you more closely. Or it could be another agency. They don't always play nice together."

John imagined how hard it must have been for Harold to confront the details of what had happened to him. Harder for him than throwing punches in a bar full of would-be tough guys was for John. He'd gone to Owen because he didn't want to put him through the ordeal again. He knew Harold would be the better choice for mining whatever was hidden in a phone but not how much better. And there was this … he hadn't just underestimated Harold's abilities. In his desire to shield him, he'd overlooked just how brave his submissive was.

"The business card," Harold said. "An audio equipment company, supposedly. I'm pretty sure it's a front for guns. It took a while but it wasn't that hard to trace the actual deliveries made to the warehouse. " Harold sighed. "I know you'll want to go there, John so I've … I've hacked their security. I can make it safer for you."

John was quietly amazed. Of course he wanted to see the place, see who ran it, who showed up there. Maybe pad out his arsenal while he was at it. But right this moment he wanted … Harold. He wanted to ease the ache he saw in his hips from spending too long perched on a kitchen chair, staring at his screens. He wanted to ease the ache he sensed in his chest, in his throat. He wanted to cherish and reward him.

 

***

 

Harold lay on a bed of the long couch cushion pulled down to the floor, their bed pillows supporting his head and neck, elevating his hip just slightly. He was on the floor, John said, because he wanted to be able to move around him easily.

Where he truly lay was in darkness. Darkness that was rich, renewing itself in blooms of ever deepening shades of black. He inhabited his hand, his fingers as John touched them, cushioning them with the cotton, releasing their tension. He knew from the number of bundles he'd seen that he'd be completely wrapped and the knowledge of the drawn out pleasure before him was luxurious.

The binding transformed the surface of his body as he was slowly cocooned. The covering protected and stimulated him, touching him everywhere. He became a tactile, sensuous creature in a black velvet world with a naked sensitive mouth. His cock felt swollen, trapped and bound in a prison of exquisite pressure.

John's touch. Harold moaned when the hands massaged his feet, first one and then the other. Moving up his legs, light pressure on his balls, on his cock, not enough … not enough, but so good he pushed up to feel more. Then the warmth of John's breath, his lips, on his shaft through the binding. The nudge of his nose between his legs, an affectionate bump of his chin, the scrape of a cheek; the casual dominance of a powerful animal. Harold loved the possessive affection of John's handling but in the darkness, bound by him, the feeling was intense.

Harold licked his lips, trying to draw him, wanting his kiss, his tongue, his cock. The kiss came to him, the lips he loved to feel on his own, force and softness invading his mouth.

***

John wanted it to be perfect. Complete. He put Harold through a light series of postures and adjustments for the hip until he was satisfied that he was loose and receptive. Then he'd wrapped him, beginning at his head to give the mental wheels much needed rest.

The floor was far from ideal as a work area but it had some benefits. Near the end when he knew Harold desperately needed to come, he stripped off his own clothes and straddled the bound body, lowering himself enough to press some of his weight onto him, his erection like a bar against his sub's bound cock. The struggle erupted beneath him; Harold trying to thrust up against him, pinned in place by John's weight. He nearly came himself from the sounds of excited breath and the squirming against his dick as Harold came. He backed off of him slowly, relieving the pressure he'd subjected him to, enough to trigger him but not hurt him. The satisfaction of achieving this made the prospect of his own orgasm much sweeter.

His submissive was deeply sated. It transformed John's arousal from a feeling of need to one of triumph. There was no protest as he cut the bindings, only blissful acceptance and utter softness. When Harold was naked, John turned him over gently onto his stomach. It wasn't a position he would keep him in long. The sight of him, his bare ass, the backs of his thighs was beautiful. He spread the cheeks and his lubed fingers found him as open and relaxed as he'd hoped for.

John entered him with a deep sigh of pleasure. He kissed the back of his head, his hands were holding Harold's shoulders. He fucked him without letting him bear his weight. The strain on his muscles only increased the pleasure of his dick sliding in the slick heat. He was taking him and protecting him at the same time. John felt he'd earned the bliss of ejaculating deep in Harold's body.

***

There was only a hint of autumn in the air. The decorative trees ringing the industrial park showed a few color changes, not many. John sat in the rental, watching the warehouse from outside while Harold kept him apprised of what was happening inside. Just past dark.

"It looks like four guards are all they leave for the night shift," Harold said. "But I don't see the point of you going in … "

"Hold on, we've got company," John said, seeing the headlights of a truck in his rearview mirror.

"They're killing the cameras, John. Get out there, please."

He was out of the car into the shadows at the edge of the lot. He heard Shaw's voice in the background. "Trust him, he'll know when it's safe to go." She sounded like she was talking around a mouthful of food.

"Please don't eat that over the computer … is that mustard on your fingers?" Harold said. John grinned. He knew Shaw made Harold uncomfortable but it was necessary to have her there. John trusted her. Now he found she was also good at explaining things and breaking tension; excellent side benefits. 

He was able to get close enough for a few pictures in the light of the open loading dock. Interesting. There was his buddy with the scar on his face. If his boss already knew about the guns it was possible they knew more about the contract itself. Maybe it had been shopped around or they had an informant with the Russians. John considered the possibility he should have a talk with whoever this guy's boss was after all.


	12. Chapter 12

On a brisk morning in early December, Harold dutifully walked with John down a narrow street on the Lower East Side.

"You know, Harold, there's more than one good tailor in the city," he said, apropos of nothing, Harold thought. He wasn't happy with this choice of neighborhood for their walk.

"While that's certainly true, the fact is most of the good ones know me, John. What are we doing here?"

The storefront where John had stopped him had display windows stacked with dusty antique furniture. A closed sign hung on the door. Harold was taken aback to see him ring the doorbell.

"We have an appointment," John said. To look at furniture? Harold wondered and supposed it was possible. A speaker by the doorbell crackled to life and a voice said, "Please come in," followed by the loud buzz of an automatic lock release.

Harold felt very reluctant to enter.

This was their day's excursion, a walk. It might be in a park, a museum. It was sometimes a neighborhood stroll and often included a restaurant. Harold suspected John would physically drag him out if he didn't go willingly. It wasn't for exercise. They had spaces devoted to workouts in every safe house, another daily requirement since the end of September, since the kidnapping and the start of their life in hiding. He knew the daily outings were John's attempt to keep him connected to the world around them.

Harold usually enjoyed going out but not always in the moment when it was difficult to stop working. Right now his mind was still half engaged with the problems he'd been working through before dawn, problems that had gotten him up out of bed before dawn.

He was also finding the neighborhood disappointing … the prospect of discovering a congenial coffee shop seemed unlikely.

There was light at the back of the dark, furniture-filled interior and a young man was waving to them, smiling.

"Good morning, gentlemen. Please come this way."

***

Life in the shadows was second nature to John, but it didn't come naturally to Harold.

They had been moving from safe house to safe house since the end of September. Harold had never gone back to work at IFT. John had retrieved the hard drives he needed just hours ahead of the arrival of an NSA security team, mandated and put in place by Denton Weeks. Weeks raised hell when he found his tech genius had slipped through his fingers along with the all-important hard drives.

Harold now worked only from remote locations … locations hidden even from Nathan who was saddled with running interference between Harold and a very unhappy NSA director. It was something, John granted, he did pretty well.

Work-wise Harold seemed to be thriving. It was in other areas John feared he was suffering, missing favorite places, accustomed pleasures. Among them his tailor. It didn't help that they lost most of his clothes when they fled the Chelsea loft.

Beautiful clothes, fine fabrics, these were things John didn't want to see him sacrifice.

They passed through a curtained doorway beyond the front room full of furniture, following the young man. He led them into a bright space filled with shelves of fabric, garment racks and tools of the trade, the tailor's workshop. Harold's wonder, his surprised delight as he stopped to inspect several bolts of cloth was worth gold to John.

He had Carl Elias to thank.

***

John had found the mob boss by making himself easy to find, loitering on the boardwalk the day after the gun shipment hijack. He'd stayed close to Yogorov's bar, sure the new boss would have eyes on the territory. The man with the scar, the one he'd seen at the warehouse, at the bar and at the police precinct, showed up.

"We meet again," John said.

"I'll take you to Elias." In their unspoken conversation, the guy's eyes said, I'd like to wipe that smirk off your face with my fist, and John's smile said, try it and see what happens. There was a trace of something going on below the surface of the guy's hostility that John thought went beyond tough-guy posturing.

John was fairly confident the kidnapping had been orchestrated, if not by Weeks himself, by one of his agency cohorts, but he couldn't afford to overlook any possibilities.

He was taken to a hole-in-the-wall coffee shop just off the boardwalk. Not a headquarters or even a regular spot, he thought, just a quickly cleared space for this meeting.

Carl Elias was seated in a back booth, watching him enter. He looked as mild and unthreatening as his right-hand man looked tough. Face to face, John felt the draw of his energy, soft yet powerful like Harold's. But he lacked the qualities that made Harold's so special, his sweetness, his ineffable goodness.

Elias's welcoming smile was warm, as if they were already well-acquainted. "Please, have a seat, John. Would you like coffee?"

"No thanks."

"You took off very quickly the other night," the man said, stirring his own coffee and carefully setting the spoon in the saucer. "Anthony described your fighting prowess to me in great detail. He also described your devotion to your friend, Harold." John did not like to hear Harold's name spoken here, no matter how blandly it was uttered.

"Impressive," Elias continued. "Very impressive. I'm curious to know more about you … and about your friend." Feeling the quality of Elias's attention John understood that the guy with the scar, Anthony, was his jealous lover.

"The Russians showed an unhealthy interest in my friend," John said. "It didn't work out well for them."

Elias smiled and nodded. John did not smile.

"I understand. You want to protect him. So, why are you here?"

"To … fill in some blanks."

"You think I might have information. If I did, why would I share it with you?"

"Gratitude?"

Another smile. "You think I should be grateful?"

"I gift-wrapped a few Russians. I know you have information … there's a gun shipment I didn't interfere with."

This took Elias off guard and John saw Anthony's move reflected in the backsplash behind the counter, coming at him from behind. John was ready for him but Elias put a hand up to still his henchman.

"You were somewhat helpful with the Russians," he agreed. He paused, his gentle brown eyes sizing John up in light of the new information. "You should know there's always a price for information. I'm going share what I know because frankly, John, I would rather have a man with your talents as a friend than an adversary … but I'll expect something in return."

John waited, not agreeing or disagreeing.

"The contract on your friend was put out anonymously. The Russians didn't know who they were dealing with. They were just greedy for guns. We have reason to believe the source was a drug dealer, known by the initials, LOS. Up to now, he's been strictly in the business of drugs for cash. A lot of cash. If your friend is in competition with him … that's something we'd be interested in knowing."

John grinned at the thought of Harold as a big-time drug kingpin. It made sense they'd think so, why else would a dealer want him out of the way. The information felt solid and John recognized the Agency handle, LOS.

He weighed Elias as an asset. He could feel the undercurrent of the man's attraction to him. It could make him an excellent resource, though potentially a dangerous one, given the watchdog boyfriend. John thought he could use Elias without crossing a line that would trigger Anthony.

"LOS is CIA. The agency deals in drugs and guns. My friend has nothing to do with either one."

John saw him look up at Anthony, an understanding passing between them about how to handle the guns, given the source.

At the end of their meeting Elias offered John a phone which he accepted. He took it but had no intention of keeping it on him. He stashed it in a locker at Penn Station. He disliked involvement with the world Elias inhabited but he intended to stay in contact. It was necessary to monitor the borderland between covert government ops and organized crime. Elias was well-placed for that.

In time there proved to be other benefits to the relationship.

Sipping espresso, watching Harold be pampered and fussed over by an Italian tailor named Gianni and his two young assistants. They were in a large fitting room at the back of the building with windows looking out on a walled garden.

Watching Harold be measured for new clothes and shown fabrics was surprisingly erotic. The choosing of fabric evidently required a lot of touching and stroking to see how the cloth would feel, how it would look against his skin. Throughout this process Harold stood on a raised platform in the finery of his underwear. All this activity was reflected in an antique three-sided mirror. His lover chatted softly in Italian with the assistants while submitting to their gentle handling. There was a look of quiet pleasure on his handsome face that John savored. He shifted in his seat, his dick responding to the intimate drama playing out in front of him. 

It didn't surprise him to hear Harold speak Italian; the sound was sensuous and he was content to listen without knowing what was being said. He caught a few glances in his direction and saw Harold blush and … he wanted to touch him, to kiss him.

John wondered how many Dons had sat in his place, aroused, watching a favorite be outfitted. Elias claimed there had been a few among the tailor's elite clientele. People like himself, he said, for whom their right-hand man was more than a friend, and Gianni, a trusted confidante. It was part of an era when few safe places existed for two men to be intimate. Times changed, but not as quickly among the Five Families.

This venture was doing both of them a good turn. John wanted the name of a skilled tailor and Elias was grateful to have a good customer to steer toward the aging craftsman whose art was appreciated by few and affordable by even fewer.

When the fitting and consultation were done, the young men dressed Harold in a long, dark dressing gown that had a heavy liquid movement to it and a subtle sheen; its extravagant sash hung full length. They put slippers on the floor for him to step down into. John loved to see Harold dressed in cozy flannel, but this brought out what he thought of as the French film star in his looks.

The young men left the room and Harold turned to him, his face showing every sign he could hope for; heightened color, relaxed features, warm gaze.

"They left us alone on purpose," Harold said.

John smiled. "Come closer."

He ran his hands up the outsides of Harold's thighs lifting the satiny material so the front of the robe opened to show him his legs, the beginnings of his erection.

"Closer," John said, guiding him to sit straddling his lap. The slipper chair with its lack of arms was perfect for this and John gave a low murmur of appreciation feeling Harold's weight on his thighs, pulling him closer against his erection. "Kiss me."

This was almost too good, Harold's arms around his shoulders, the unaccustomed pleasure of Harold stroking his hair.

John untied the long sash of the robe and it fell free in his hands. The robe tie was a good length and thickness. He pushed the robe back, out of his way.

"What are you doing, John?"

He didn't answer, sliding a loop of the sash into Harold's boxers, under his balls, lifting them and tying a knot at the base of his cock. Harold moved on his lap, aroused but looking at the curtained doorway.

"Look at me, not the door," John said, winding the sash ends around his hips and back over his erection, forcing it upright to his stomach. Harold's hands clutched John's shoulders and John wrapped him a second time, winding upward.

"I'm not so sure this is a good idea" Harold said. His objection was half-hearted and his eyes were now focused on John and what he was doing to him. "Gianni said there's a room upstairs. Where we could … relax." He blushed furiously when he said it.

"I'd like to relax," John said, winding the third turn of the sash around him and tying it securely. Harold was gazing at him with a helpless lust that was restrained by a thread of anxiety. John loved to see the lust but the anxiety needed dispelling.

"I don't think I can get up," Harold whispered. John kissed him, a little harder, more forcefully than he usually did. He wanted to distract his thoughts, make him work for his breath to deepen it. He was a little surprised to discover how much Harold liked it.

"I'll help you," he said, drawing back, satisfied by Harold's breathing and the relaxation of his body. John lifted and steadied him, straightened his boxers and wrapped the robe around him. "Show me the way upstairs."


	13. Chapter 13

John sensed Harold getting a little melancholy around the edges and thought it might be the coming holidays. Holidays were not John's forte. Thanksgiving was easy, a nice restaurant where they satisfied tradition by eating too much. Christmas might require something more but he had no idea what.

They were at Rockefeller Center, in a throng of tourists, looking at the tree and taking a few minutes to watch the ice skaters. Harold was watching them, at any rate. John was watching him, the crowd around them, him. They were waiting for a meeting that John was concerned enough about to bring Shaw in on. She was sitting on the edge of a planter further up the plaza. He could see her, a black clad little figure, eating. He could hear her chewing softly in his earpiece.

"Getting full, Shaw?" She was slowing down.

"Fries are getting cold. I'm pretty sure this is your girl now, Riley. She looks nuts. I'd say she's alone."

"I see her." Harold's cyber stalker.

***

When Harold deliberately closed a window on his computer screen as John approached, he might as well have turned to him and announced, I'm hiding something from you. The action was so unusual and his body language so uneasy that John was instantly alert.

They were in the abandoned library, a place that was rapidly becoming home base. Off the grid and virtually non-existent on paper, it was ideal. It had been closed along with a score of other branches when funding evaporated from strained city and state budgets; this particular branch had been in the middle of restoration when it was shut down. The building was still shrouded in construction material, excellent cover for entries and exits.

John had just come back from a run, his shoes noiseless on the marble stairs. He was heading toward Harold for a quick kiss on his way to getting cleaned up. Harold's furtive movement and guilty look were unmistakable. He rested his hand on his sub's tensed shoulder.

"What are you hiding, Harold?"

"Nothing, really."

John wondered if it was something sexual, maybe some kind of porn that Harold didn't want him to know he was interested in. Wishful thinking. John waited, gently massaging his shoulders; they relaxed a little.

"You're going to wait aren't you," Harold sighed, "until I tell you."

He sat back in the chair.

"About … " John said, keeping his voice calm despite feeling more concerned than moments before when he thought Harold might just be hiding some kind of porn.

"Someone has found me online. I think it's a woman. She's very good. Astonishingly good. She's figured out that I'm here in the city and wants to meet me."

"A stalker. When were you going to tell me?" John walked around to face him.

"Well … I don't know that I was." Harold was withdrawing in a way that reminded him too much of the way he'd seen him manage Nathan's anger. He lowered himself beside him so he wouldn't be towering over him.

"You didn't want to worry me and maybe you thought I wouldn't understand." Harold nodded and met his gaze.

And he was right, John thought. He was worried and he didn't understand. There was a whole world Harold inhabited where John couldn't protect him and that made him … angry. Angry at his own shortcomings. But beyond that he was angry at himself for failing to keep tabs on Harold's computers. Even if most of what appeared on those screens was incomprehensible to him, he would have seen and understood chat windows.

 

***

Now John stepped casually in the line of sight between Harold and a young woman approaching them. Long, loose curling brown hair, sharp pretty features. Very slim.

"Hello," she said, trying to peek around him at Harold. John found her disturbing despite her soft voice and smile. "You must be John. I'm kind of a fan of your boyfriend, Harold's." She tried again to lean around John whose hand shot out to grasp her upper arm, not gently. He knew only too well that danger could arrive in small, pretty packages.

"Before you get to ask for his autograph, you're going to go with my friend Shaw, here. We'll meet you in the restaurant after she pats you down."

She drew back, giving Shaw a warm once over. "Sounds like fun," she said. "See you soon, Harry," she directed past him. Harold looked anxious.

"I think we may be carrying the safety issue too far, John. I hope Shaw doesn't upset her." John turned to look at him. He didn't argue, they'd been over this a number of times.

"You're wearing your new suit," he said. He wanted to distract him, relax him, and this worked. He knew Harold had been waiting for him to comment and he'd saved it for just such a moment. The day was warm enough that Harold's coat wasn't buttoned and John held it open to look at him. It was the first suit from Gianni and far from not having noticed, John had found it difficult to keep his hands off him. All the measuring, touching and care the tailor and his assistants had poured into the fitting were now manifest in a suit that fit and flattered Harold beautifully.

"You like it?"

"I do," he said, leaning back on the rail that edged the promenade above the skaters. He drew Harold into his arms and was happy to feel him relax against him. He stroked his back, part of his attention on Shaw who was searching the woman who called herself, Root. It sounded as if Root was enjoying the process a little too much. Shaw uncovered a gun of some kind and a taser. Harold responded to his wandering focus, stepping back.

"Is everything okay?" he asked.

"We're done," Shaw said in his ear. "You owe me dinner, Riley."

 

***

Harold found Root disconcerting but not frightening. He'd been the object of tech-crushes more times than he could count … it was one of a number of reasons he preferred to work alone. Nathan was a prime example, he'd fallen for him as an engineer in a way he'd never fallen for him as a man. Root was a little extreme, even so. She was very talented and he was somewhat flattered by her devotion to his code but he'd have to keep her strictly in check, especially around John who clearly found her lack of boundaries threatening and probably sensed her disdain for him.

What someone like Root didn't understand was how much it meant to him that John loved him without the slightest taint of tech-worship. He supposed it was similar to the way a beautiful woman would feel about someone who loved her mind as much as her looks. And Root, like Nathan, couldn't see the brilliance of John, the depths of his intuition, his comprehension of all things physical.

They had taken her to the cafe restaurant that looked out on the skating rink. There, she and Harold had done most of the talking, Shaw most of the eating. John, he realized, would understand what they were saying about as well as he understood Italian, a little bit here and there. He knew it upset his protective lover that danger might exist in a medium that he didn't have the skills to protect him from but he'd listened with great patience and seemed reassured enough to send Harold home with Shaw as an escort.

It had been a relief to finally be back in the library. He felt at ease here more than anywhere they'd spent time since the Chinatown studio. Maybe it was being surrounded by books, but as vast as the building was, it felt cozy to him. He didn't mind having Shaw for company.

He was getting used to her odd ways. Anywhere they spent significant time they had a dog bed for her. At the library it was beside Harold's work station and it amazed him how content she was to curl up in it. Ever so often she'd sit up and lean against him. Harold found it pleasant to run her ponytail through his fingers. If the time dragged on and she got restless he would throw one of the tennis balls for her to chase. The library was a good place for this -- if he threw it right, it would bounce all the way down the main stairs and occupy her a long time searching and bringing it back.

She lay on her back looking up at him that afternoon. Harold vaguely hoped he wasn't expected to rub her stomach.

"You know your girlfriend had a gun on her," she said. "And a taser. I think that's why John followed her."

"What?" Harold was shocked by every part of what she'd just said.

"Gun, taser, John," she repeated. "That's a nice-looking suit, Harold. You look good."

"Ms Shaw, how do you know John followed her."

"It's what I would have done. He'll give her back her stuff and tell her to keep her distance. He won't hurt her."

Harold realized that he'd been out of touch with John longer than usual and initiated contact.

"Yes," John said.

"Where are you?"

"On my way home. What's wrong?"

"Did you follow Root after our meeting?"

"I did. I gave her back her things. We had a chat." Harold didn't know what to say. His heart was beating hard. A gun … why was she armed? It didn't fit at all with his idea of who she was or what she wanted. Was he wrong all along and this woman had come to hurt him? Her only threat, as he'd felt it, was getting closer to him than he'd thought possible. She was utterly incapable of breaching the walls of the machine. Now he wondered how far she'd go to reach that aim.

"Harold, it's okay." John's voice was so sure, so steady that Harold felt the sudden clutch of his fear begin to let go. "I'm picking up Chinese food. I'll get extra in case Shaw hangs around."

"Told you so," Shaw said, sitting up. She turned so she could rest her cheek against Harold's thigh and he could pet her.

He took a deep breath and picked up her ponytail to run through his fingers. This too was calming. "He's bringing extra Chinese food, if you want to stay."

"If you put it in my dish, I'll stay."

"I will." Harold didn't really like to see her eat on the floor but he'd been feeling better about it since he bought the beautiful silver sets of large dog bowls for food and water. They met with Shaw's approval. He kept them clean and not on the floor between meals.

"Say it, Harold," Shaw pushed at his leg with her head.

"Good dog." It was kind of sweet, he thought, the way you could almost see a shiver run through her. He took the tie out of her hair to let it fall and massaged her scalp with his fingertips. This was her favorite, especially behind her ears. He wondered why she only wanted him to do these things for her, not John. He accepted it because if he pictured John touching her this way it made him feel uncomfortable, in a jealous kind of way, so he thought maybe that was why.

Christmas was coming. It wasn't usually a happy time of year for him but he was looking forward to it a little because he'd be with John, not spending the holiday with Nathan's family, always a little tense. He was happy to be missing the IFT Christmas party, an event at which Nathan, along with scores of their employees were likely to drink too much.

Shaw was sinking down into her bed. He wondered what a little dog might like for a Christmas present. For that matter, what would John or Zoe want? Actually, Zoe was pretty simple to buy for. She liked good wine. Shaw, maybe something that could pass for dog treats. The girl liked to eat. Maybe a collar or name tag to keep for her visits. For John, he had no idea.

He smelled the wafting aromas of Chinese spices before he heard John on the stairs.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have not seen any Rinch for days!

Harold was taking a tea break to get up and away from his computer. He held his cup close hoping the aroma would counteract the vague scent of guns being cleaned. John was somewhere downstairs but the chemical scent traveled.

"John, why didn't you mention that Zoe had invited us to a Christmas party?"

"I also didn't mention Elias invited us to Christmas dinner."

"Elias … really?" Carl Elias was a criminal contact of John's, that much Harold knew. He also knew that Elias had arranged for them to meet Gianni, his new beloved tailor.

"Yes." John sounded distracted. Harold could hear the sound of metal on metal and envisioned him putting gun parts together.

It won't be like this forever, he thought. Guns … hiding. The day was coming when life in safe houses, the necessity for protection, would end. He'd complete the project and hand the machine over to the government. It would be out of his hands, a matter of numbers. There would be no more need to hide or for John to be armed. No more need for his friend, the little dog, to be enlisted as a bodyguard. He felt close to it.

Even the woman who called herself Root was putting herself in danger on his behalf now. 

The construction material that draped the view from the two-story windows was rippling and through a rent in the fabric Harold could see snow. His eyes traveled to the shelf where Ms Shaw had plugged in a tangled string of colored lights, reflections decorated the book covers behind it.

"They work," she said. "You should put them up somewhere." Harold liked the way they looked where she'd left them.

She'd had the lights in hand when she came by earlier to report on Root, whom she now referred to as "that woman," with a mixture of annoyance and mild amusement.

Harold had an uncomfortable feeling about how Root had been turned so swiftly from a possible threat into an asset. The whole concept of assets was a little disturbing. The asset relationship was generally a friendly one, as he understood it, but it always involved some kind of leverage. As far as Root was concerned, he knew this leverage involved Ms Shaw and Zoe Morgan somehow. He hadn't asked John for specifics … afraid he'd tell him something he didn't want to hear.

In the days since, they'd met with Root a few times. Never at the library. Her attitude toward John was definitely altered since the meeting John referred to as "their chat," if not her opinion of his place on the evolutionary scale. She deferred to him in a grudging way though she spoke mostly to Harold and referred to John as, "your knuckle-dragging boyfriend," which didn't bother John though Harold found it disconcerting.

Root had set herself the task of investigating a company called Decima, based in Shanghai. She and Harold had both uncovered evidence that Decima was targeting his work very aggressively. He thought her plans were ill-advised but she'd been cheerfully confident, as if she were about to embark on an adventure. Harold could only urge her to be careful and supply her with funds.

He knew there were any number of tech companies either in competition with or actively attempting to infiltrate his system. These threats weren't limited to rival firms. At least half of the NSA security team overseen by Denton Weeks was, in fact, plugged into the IFT servers and relentlessly attempting to penetrate the system. Unsuccessfully. Harold had confidence in his secure encryption, but he had even more in the step he'd recently taken to enable the machine to protect itself.

It was an issue he'd wrestled with. A frightening step, in some ways. He felt like a parent sending a child forth into the world. He could protect the machine to a point but beyond that he had to trust it to protect itself. Decima, as far as he knew, was the only entity seeking to infect his system. The others wanted to pirate it, use it, not destroy it.

A sudden gust of wind drew his eye back to the torn fabric and the snow blowing through.

"I understand not wanting to have dinner with members of a criminal organization, John, though I suspect the food would be excellent. But Ms Shaw seemed disappointed. Did you just sigh?"

"Harold, do you remember Zoe's checklists?"

"Of course, but … " He remembered them vividly. "People wouldn't be doing those things … during dinner."

Harold remembered the first time he'd looked at those lists. He'd been baffled, disgusted … aroused. Even the things that had excited him to think about were frightening in the context of imminently occurring between himself and a stranger. The next time he'd gone through them everything had changed. He'd met John.

"Are you going to be down there all afternoon?" he asked. He wanted to see him, feel the solidity of his presence.

"Done," John answered him, rounding the corner of the landing, drying his hands. Harold felt a wreath of anxieties give way to quiet wonder at the man's ability to appear when he needed him, wanted him.

"Have you thought about where you want to walk in the snow?" John asked him.

"It looks pretty nasty out there," Harold said. John smiled slightly, considering. He was looking him over with a speculative expression that gave Harold hope they'd be staying in, at least for a while. Everywhere John's eyes lingered on him he felt warm.

"Maybe some indoor activity … and then a walk in the snow," John said, taking the cooling tea cup from him. Harold stood still, feeling the brush of desire through his body. John slid his jacket off of him and looked at him again. Then he took him by the hand.

Their bedroom space was a work in progress, adjacent to his work room. Originally, it was just intended for relaxing but the number of nights they never left were multiplying. The bed was new and the rug was soft. John had moved out a lot of the books and stocked the shelves with necessities. Harold felt comfortable and secure in this room.

He gave himself up completely to being undressed; the gentle sensations of buttons sliding loose, John's fingertips and quiet directions. Harold was very aroused but also patient. He loved each touch, the diffuse sensations through the fabric of his suit when John caressed him before freeing him, the intensity when fingers and lips touched bare skin.

In darkness he succumbed to John's mouth and then had blissful quiet time.

 

***

John gave Harold time to rest. He was aroused by the session but unwilling to devote the time then to his own pleasure. He knew Harold's questions about Zoe's party had only been postponed and he needed to sort his thoughts, plan some kind of strategy.

He was familiar with Zoe's holiday parties. He'd attended one when he worked for her and been talked into a second invitation after he'd stopped; a special engagement. Both times he'd performed an exhibition session for a guest. This was exactly what Zoe wanted from him again. Two new clients of hers. Two men. One wanted to gift the session to his lover.

"Before you say no, John," she'd told him that morning, "let me remind you who introduced you to Harold and who solved your recent problem with a certain very bratty pain-slut."

He was no closer to thinking of a way to discuss it with Harold when he drew him gently back to the surface and asked him where he'd like to take their walk.

***

They were strolling Fifth Avenue in the late afternoon. The snow had stopped. It was no more than a decorative accent on windowsills and ledges. Harold had requested this walk for their excursion.

John was enjoying it but still thinking through his dilemma.

"Harold, you know how I sometimes watch you work even though I don't really understand what you're doing?" he began.

Harold squeezed his hand and he stopped walking, turning to face him.

"It's not important for you to read code, John. You understand me, that's what matters." His blue eyes were vivid in the dark frame of his glasses. His pure gaze was a heady thing for John who swallowed, feeling his mouth relax. He wanted to kiss him, sink into him. He meant to just brush his lips on his but it felt so good he lingered and the lips parted for him.

Harold drew back in a moment, looking shy.

"Let's walk, John. We're almost there."

"There?"

"Another block," he said, turning to resume walking and urging John by the hand.

Harold's destination turned out to be Valencia Jeweler's opulent Fifth Avenue showroom. The windows were alight with sparkling Christmas displays in crystal and gold. Of course, John thought. Rings. He was amazed and a little sorry that he hadn't been the one to think of and act on this first. He opened the door for Harold and followed him in, wondering which of all their names they'd get a marriage license under.

Harold was pink-cheeked from the cold and looked very pleased with himself. "I could have picked them out myself," he said, "but I really wanted to know what you'd like." 

A young man with a rose boutonniere approached them. "How may I assist you today?"

"We'd like to see a selection of white gold cufflinks, please," Harold said.

"Not rings?" John said, surprised.

Harold and the attendant both turned to look at him. Harold looked astonished, the attendant, confused.

"Rings, John? Are you saying you would."

"Are you asking," he teased him, not quite believing it wasn't Harold's intent. Then he regretted teasing, seeing the struggle of emotion in his lover's face. John put his arm around him and told the young attendant, "Rings. And some water."

"Yes, of course, sir. Please follow me," he said.

He ushered them to a private viewing area with a small table and settee and brought a pitcher of water.

John was thinking that for the occasion and the money they were about to spend, a large bed and bottle of champagne would be more appropriate, but he got his prospective bride out of his coat and into the circle of his arm. He took small sips of Harold's quiet happiness, kissing his soft hair, his cheek. What he wanted was to bathe in it, swim in it naked.

"Engagement rings. White gold with diamonds," the sales associate announced, drawing their attention to a black velvet tray of rings.

John left the choices to Harold, making appropriate sounds as necessary to encourage him, watching him with pleasure. He liked it when Harold put a ring on him and caressed his hand, gazing at it.

"It looks very handsome, John. This is the one. I think we should get the cufflinks with the same motif. You can wear them to Zoe's party."

John nodded and kept his inward groan silent. He put the thought of the difficult conversation to come aside. Better to give his submissive this happiness, untarnished. The proposal and the beautiful jewelry. Maybe a hotel room. He'd like to see him in nothing but the ring on a luxurious bed. Room service.

"I think we're done. Time to go home, John." That would work too. The key was Harold in nothing but the ring. Their own bed was more than sufficient. Horizontal. Harold's favorite pillows.

"Home," he agreed. He'd supply the room service himself.


	15. Chapter 15

The library had no shower but the men's room floor had a drain and John had fit a hose attachment with a sprayer to one of the sinks. The drainage mat felt good under Harold's bare feet, the circular pattern of rubber holes was nubbly in texture. He braced a hand on the sink as he was soaped and lathered, watching John, a naked, blurry but compelling sight. Harold reached out to hold on to his broad shoulder when John knelt on the mat, working down to Harold's feet.

"You could be the body attendant to an emperor, John."

"I like attending the emperor's … pampered pet," John said. That made Harold smile.

John stood. "Rinse time. Close your eyes." The warm cascade didn't have the force of a shower but John was nothing if not thorough with the spray. Harold's body was beyond producing an erection or it would have with all the slippery, wet handling. But he was more than sated; there had been the dark-time session before their walk, the incredible revelation of buying the rings. When they'd gotten home the intensity of John's desire had carried Harold with him.

John was on his knees again in front of him, letting Harold direct the rinsing spray over him. Harold liked running the warm water through John's hair, ruffling it with his fingers to rinse the shampoo. Even without his glasses, Harold could see the sparkle of his ring as he stroked John's wet hair and aimed the water stream down his neck and over his shoulders. John was supporting him with his hands, casually kissing, licking at whatever wet naked skin he could reach. Harold slipped his fingers down to help him capture his soft cock in his mouth. It stirred a muted, sweet sensation.

"Done," he told him, tugging a little on his hair. John released him and kissed his stomach. "I've been thinking," Harold said. "Perhaps we should hold off on the actual wedding until we can use our real names."

John leaned back a little, looking up. "That could be a very long engagement." He stood up and turned off the water. "The names don't matter to me. I know who I'm marrying."

He retrieved towels and Harold's glasses from farther down the line of sinks.

"It could be sooner than you think, John. I'm getting close, very close. Almost all of my work now is fine tuning and testing." John said nothing, handing him a towel and his glasses.

Harold put his glasses on. He saw no reflection of the hope he felt in John's expression. What he saw was concern … and sympathy.

"Once the work is done, my part is finished," he said, as if John hadn't understood him. "The rest will be in their hands. Not mine. We'll be free of it."

"Let's hope you're right." John reached out to dry him but Harold stepped back.

"You seem sure … that I'm wrong. Why?"

John sighed, looking down at the towel unmoving in Harold's hands, using the towel in his own hands to begin drying himself.

"I guess I have a different perspective."

Harold's heartbeat had become heavy in his chest. He looked at John, waiting for him to explain himself.

"Harold, do you think they'll stop trying to find a way in … or trust you?"

"I'm aware that they won't be particularly happy, but they'll see that the system works. They'll have to accept it. I can't be the only one who understands that people's privacy has to be protected. What more can they ask of me?" Hearing himself, he despaired even as the words came out of his mouth. How naive, how impossible. John's gaze was gentle but didn't hide what he believed.

Oh god, Harold thought. It won't end. He knows it won't end … and he's right.

But he wanted it to. He wanted it so badly, a peaceful life with John. He didn't want to inhabit this shadow world with its constant undercurrent of fear. He felt angry, as if it were John's fault. Not true. Not fair. Yet he wanted to punish him for making him see this bleak future.

He looked away from him, down at himself and began drying his skin roughly. He felt choked, dry inside.

In Harold's mind the dark realities had belonged to John's world; brutality and violence. John's life, not his. But examined for even a lucid moment these constructs dissolved. Harold knew these were things John had suffered, not created. He took off his glasses and covered his face with the towel to hide his sadness, to hide the shame he felt for his longing to blame him.

The few tears were a relief when they came; when he felt the towel rubbing softly through his hair. Behind his ears. Methodical, tender, down the back of his neck; patting the dampness and stroking his back. The sadness lingered but the anger was passing.

John was working his way downward and it began to soothe him. Harold drew a deep breath. He dried his eyes, wiped his glasses and settled them back on his nose. He reached down and ran his fingers through John's damp hair.

 

***

 

Food. Sleep. His submissive needed to eat and it had to be comfort food. He knew Harold wanted to crawl into bed and hide but if he let him retreat in this state it would be a long, sad night with no promise of a better morning to come. He'd get him to peaceful sleep but first he wanted him to eat and recover at least a measure of light.

They had never gone back to Harold's favorite coffee shop, an obvious place to avoid. But at this late hour, an unaccustomed time for him to be there, John thought it was worth the gamble against familiarity. So he bundled him up, hailed a cab, and took him to the garment district.

When Harold heard the address, he looked at him, surprised.

"Comfort food," John said.

"It has been … a tumultuous kind of day," Harold admitted. John saw a glimmer of pleasure and felt the choice was right. The small risk, worthwhile for the potential reward. He'd arranged insurance. Shaw was not available but a man with a distinctive scar under his eye was sitting in an SUV parked across the street from the restaurant. Anthony. John had trusted this watchdog of a man to scout the block before they arrived and to keep a lookout while they ate, as an added layer of protection.

Christmas dinner, he conceded, was a small price to pay.

He sat opposite Harold for better sight lines though he felt the familiar urge to be closer. It was a satisfactory tradeoff to watch him eating a favorite meal, to feed him the occasional bite of syrup-soaked pancakes. Most important was seeing the effect on his state of mind. John watched him revive like a plant given water; his posture gradually straightening, color returning and hints of a smile on his sleepy face.

Harold's hopes, the faith he'd had in the outcome of completing his work had surprised John. But the more he thought about it the more sense it made. There was, after all, a layer of puppy fur, of optimism to Harold. The danger of the world he'd entered the day he began working with government intelligence agencies had not sunk into his bones. John wasn't eager to see it happen. Harold wasn't a soldier. John was trained and indoctrinated to endure things that this gentle person should never have to. Harold had native toughness and courage, but John treasured his innocence and was committed to protecting it as much as possible, for as long as possible.

When they left the restaurant John assumed Anthony would tail them so he took Harold to a close but potentially expendable safe house; a luxury studio in a complex of executive rentals. Here, the concierge was used to sporadic occupancy of the expensive suites.

"Why here?" Harold said.

"A little luxury is a good thing once in a while."

 

***

John took advantage of the building's heated pool in the predawn hours and while he swam laps, slicing through the water, he laid out in his mind what he needed to discuss with Harold. Zoe's party. And now, Christmas dinner with Elias. The latter could be put on hold for the moment. He was back in the studio, showered, and had a pot of tea brewing by the time Harold stirred at around 7 AM.

The carpeting was soft enough to suit Harold's morning workout. John was mainly interested in seeing him stretch, do some core-strengthening postures and in working the muscle groups stressed by the time he spent in front of his computer. 

Harold emerged afterwards, showered and beautifully dressed from the stocked closet, in time for the arrival of breakfast. John thought he looked stunning. Maybe not completely restored, that was an objective that couldn't be fixed to a timetable. It might not be achievable. Puppy fur lost could never grow back. But John sensed that something had taken its place. He didn't think it was an underpinning of melancholy or sadness, per se, but it was definitely energy in a minor key, adding something smoky that was new to Harold's mien. 

"Let's talk about Zoe's party," he said, watching Harold uncover his omelet and toast.

"We're going?" Harold said, and looked pleased. Good start, John thought.

"Probably, but we need to talk about it."

Harold nodded, spreading his napkin in his lap. "The checklists," he said. "You think I'll be uncomfortable with people dressed in fetish clothing. As long as I'm not expected to wear it, John, I don't think it will be terribly disturbing. Is that what you're worried about?"

John was momentarily distracted by the sight of the ring on Harold's finger. He glanced down at his own.

"Well, that," he said, and paused to eat some of his own omelet, appreciating the luxury of having hot food delivered. "But there's more to it. I've been to a couple of her Christmas parties. There are two parts to them. There's the dinner and gifts part."

"Regular gifts," Harold asked, "or odd, fetish themed gifts?"

 "I don't know. My gift was always money because I was working for her. I wouldn't worry about it too much." John had intentionally ordered a cheese and mushroom omelet for himself, Harold's second favorite, so he could cut a piece of it as he did now, and feed it to him. Harold saw it coming and leaned forward perfectly, opening his mouth to accept it. "It's good, isn't it?" John said.

Harold nodded. "Very good. So," he said. "Fetish clothing at dinner. The possibility of receiving slightly embarrassing gifts. What else?"

"After dinner there's always an exhibition session for a special guest. A technical demonstration. I've done the session twice and she's asked me to do it again."

Harold put down his knife and fork and looked at John, no longer happy.

"What exactly does that entail?"

"The special guest is part of a couple, this year. One wants to give the other one a session as a gift. No sexual contact, but it could be disturbing for you to see me do something that … causes pain."

Harold's eyes flashed.

"Causing pain, notwithstanding, John, do I need to remind you that our session wasn't meant to be sexual. It's a very intimate thing, isn't it?"

"Like seeing a chiropractor or doctor is intimate, someone who manipulates your body. That doesn't make it sexual. What happened between you and me … that was falling in love, Harold. It's got nothing to do with this. Zoe wants payback for helping me with Root. It will be a work session, done in the presence of this man's lover. And you …  if you're with me."

John didn't shy from Harold's gaze, he wanted him to see that he had no intent to deceive or hurt him.

"You tried to talk to me about this yesterday," Harold said, his expression clouded, his voice quiet. "When you brought up the subject of watching me work. I thought you were feeling insecure but you were laying a foundation for this."

John nodded. "You said it didn't matter if I understood code because I understand you." Harold looked down at his food like it was a foreign substance.

"What if I say no, John," he asked, covering his plate.

"I don't do it."

"Really?" He looked up again.

"Absolutely."

"Zoe will be disappointed," Harold said. "Ms Shaw will be disappointed. But I don't understand how they could think it's acceptable. What exactly would you be doing to this man?"

"Strapping him, mainly, with something like a belt." John really didn't want to delve deeply into this, already deciding it wasn't worth the upset for Harold. He'd tell Zoe she had to find someone else. His only reason for attending the party in the first place was to please Harold.

Harold's frown was very sexy, he thought, the way his bottom lip pouted.

"It's not something that gives me pleasure, it's not something I would ever want to do to you," he assured him.

"It's something you're very good at, isn't it," Harold said. "Zoe described you to me as gifted."

John sighed, seeing they'd ranged into a topic Harold was not going to let go of easily.

"I don't like to hurt people, Harold, but I'm very good at it. I can see how much they can take, I can minimize the damage that's done," John said. "In this context, at least, it's something I would do to benefit someone, not harm them." There were long seconds of silence between them. John was trying to read him and unsure of what he was seeing. Harold was not withdrawing, not shielding. There was a growing intensity but not anger.

"Speaking of things we're good at," Harold broke the silence, looking down. "I should probably get ready for work, myself. I'll find something to wrap this up in to take with me. In case my appetite comes back."

He spoke matter-of-factly but as he stood up from the table his color was high. His expression was resolute but not tight, not compressed; the energy coming off of him was strangely erotic and John wanted to feel it in his hands, find the source of it and taste it.

Harold drew level with him and stopped. Before John could reach for him, he felt a cautioning hand on his shoulder.

"Tell Zoe that you'll do it, John. I'll be there with you to watch but I'm warning you now. If I see anything …" He looked down into his eyes.  " … anything that makes me think you're giving that man something that should only be mine … I will throw myself between the two of you and you'll be very, very sorry if that strap hits my body."

John responded to this as if Harold had stroked him with fur.

"Show me what should only be yours, Harold." His voice had dropped near a whisper. It was a blatant invitation that Harold accepted, bending forward to kiss him. John was careful to do nothing to impede this rare demonstration of passionate ownership, savoring the feel of Harold's demanding mouth, his hand moving over his chest and down his stomach. He was hard and he groaned when Harold ran his hand over his cock.

"This isn't good enough," Harold said. "I need you to lie down, on the couch."

 

***

"I want nakedness, from here," Harold touched John's chest, "to here," he indicated his thighs.

His thoughts had spun beyond making sense. His emotions were fraught. He felt challenged and couldn't find a familiar foothold to cling to but there was a force driving him; hot and emphatic, possessive. Words were hard to form seeing John stretched out in front of him, shirt open and his undershirt pulled up out of Harold's way. Trousers shoved down his thighs. There was a moment when he thought he might be unable to act. But there was something he wanted.

"Whatever I want, John, don't stop me and keep your hands to yourself." And he began.

Harold's pleasure was intense, given dominion. He played with him, kissed and teased him. And what he really wanted, he took, sucking him until he made him come in his mouth, something John never allowed but now was forbidden to resist. The hot gushes of sperm nearly choked him and poured from Harold's lips into a mixed pool of spit and come on John's stomach.

His neck was aching by then but the feeling of triumph was powerful. He wiped his mouth against John's skin and rose from his knees a little stiffly.

"You stay," he told him. In the bathroom he rinsed his mouth, dampened a washcloth and took a hand towel. Though his neck and hip were punishing his indulgence and his groin felt achy, he nevertheless felt a serene kind of satisfaction that had nothing to do with his physical state. He returned to John who was waiting patiently, just as he'd left him.

Harold used the arm of the couch to help him back down to his knees. He felt overwhelmed with affection for the man as he handled him. "You were very good to stay just as I asked you to," he said, washing John's resting cock, his lean belly and broad chest. Then patting him dry.

"Am I allowed to ask for a kiss," John said, and Harold's heart melted.

"Of course."


	16. Chapter 16

There were moments when John wanted to stop him, when he knew Harold was causing himself pain, but he couldn't. He was held back by his agreement and by the powerful need in Harold's touch that was more vivid than the pain. The honeyed sweetness that John loved was abundant … but there was a sultry heat to Harold's caresses that was new to him, as if the quiet darkness he inhabited inwardly had been tapped and begun to flow outward. John felt it in his intensity, the hungry way his hands roamed over him, the worshipful mouthing and adoration of his cock. John succumbed to what he wanted to forbid, feeling the climb toward climax. He prayed he would not thrust too deep or too hard, and then he let go. He gave himself up to Harold's urging and it shook him, lifting his hips, thrusting into the grip of the stroking hands and the irresistible mouth.

When Harold told him, "Stay," John barely nodded, it would have been difficult to coordinate his limbs to move even if he'd wanted to. He felt a pang of regret seeing how stiffly Harold got up from the floor but he also saw the look on his face. It was an expression he understood very well, a deep proprietary pleasure. It made it easier to tolerate the physical symptoms he was seeing. He could help Harold ease those strains later with massage and gentle adjustment. It was of small consequence compared to Harold's happiness, his satisfaction; nothing to what they had just shared.

People were so wrong, John thought, to equate submission with weakness. He thought Harold's power was vast. And it was wholly benevolent. He'd never trusted anyone as deeply. There was no evil in Harold's darkness, only a mysterious, seductive strength. John was its devotee. The essence of Harold. He was still drunk on it.

He watched his limping approach, his determined, careful lowering to the floor. Harold was still glowing as he gently washed him clean. John thought he was more than restored, he'd become stronger.

"Am I allowed to ask for a kiss," he said, when he found his voice.

If there was anything as good as kissing Harold it might be … being kissed by him, a subtle difference to accept and be open to however Harold wanted to caress him with his tongue, to respond more than initiate. Only John's unwillingness to let him keep bending over him made him draw back at last.

Harold sighed. "I suppose I'll be paying for this," he said, straightening up. His eyes were as sparkling as his ring, John thought. "But it was worth it," he said, running his hand down John's bare midriff, a little wistfully.

"I'll help you with the payment, Harold." John started straightening his clothes, preparing to get up. "It was worth it."

 

***

 

By the day of the party itself Harold had laid his fears about it to rest. Gifts were bought, boxed and just remained to be wrapped. He had a helper.

"Put that down," he told Shaw when she picked up the box he'd just measured out paper for.

"Is it for me, Harold?" She sniffed it.

"It might be. You certainly can't have it now, so don't ask."

He took the box from her and centered it on the square of shiny wrapping paper. Altogether, he thought, she was behaving pretty well. She couldn't be trusted to wrap anything herself but she was good at holding the paper in place for him to tape or holding down the ribbon when he tied a bow. Harold rewarded her for each package she helped with by throwing her favorite tennis ball. It was the one she'd now successfully retrieved a record 50 times without losing it in the multitude of books downstairs.

She'd come for the morning to escape what she considered the boring preparations for the party, more or less trading places with John who was going over security for the site and helping out with some heavy lifting.

"Zoe wants to kill me … and not in a good way."

"Finger right here, Ms Shaw, thank you."

"I know what you're getting, Harold. Want me to tell you?"

"No."

"I found out who the special guests are, want to know?"

"Isn't that supposed to be confidential information?" He looked a reproach at her.

"It's bullshit. The only thing special about them, that I can see, is they have a lot of money and one of them looks really tough. I hope John can handle him."

"Bad dog. Are you trying to scare me?"

"Just saying, Harold. The guy looks like he could put John down if he doesn't like what he does to his boyfriend."

"You're being deliberately provocative." Harold folded up the triangular side piece of the wrapping paper.

"You could get rid of me if you'd just throw the ball, Harold."

"Hold the paper in place. You don't get a reward until the package is wrapped."

"I convinced Zoe to let me sit next to you tonight."

"By which you mean to say you'll be underfoot all through dinner."

"I knew you'd be pleased."

Harold tied the bow on her gift. He picked up the slightly worn, no longer bright green tennis ball, and walked to the best pitching position. His skill in hitting good angles had improved but she still gave it a head start before racing past him to chase it down the stairs.

He could easily imagine Zoe getting exasperated with her dog. Fortunately, as annoying as she could be she was also good company, and a little bit helpful.

He frowned briefly in thought about her comment on the "special guests," but told himself John could handle whatever situation came up. It seemed unlikely that a man who was paying for his partner to have a session with a professional would start some kind of fist-fight with him.

 

***

John ignored the frantic activity around him. He'd shifted a lot of un-needed equipment out of the area to be staged and now was concentrating on security. When he was satisfied that the place was clear of bugs, the entries and exits monitored and secure, he spared some time for Zoe who wanted to review the upcoming session.

They sat at the long table that would later be set for dinner. She gave him the checklist. John didn't feel overly concerned. She'd already indicated it would be straightforward and had mentioned the strap.

On paper it was a punishment profile. Pain and humiliation. "The boyfriend can't bring himself to do these things," Zoe said.

"They understand I'm not offering a regular service or agreeing to any kind of threesome."

"Yes," Zoe said, and John studied her face, unsure of her answer. "I made that clear to them, John," she insisted. "It doesn't mean they're thrilled about it. Ideally, if it's successful, they would like an ongoing situation."

"Then, forget it. Why isn't Grice doing the session?"

"Devon's not up to this."

"Of course he is, and he's free to make a commitment."

"You're the one who can handle these people, John."

"What aren't you telling me?" He waited. She looked away in thought. "Zoe … " he started.

"Okay, these gentlemen contacted me through someone I trust in the mayor's office. No one has said anything openly, but an organized crime connection has been heavily implied. Devon's uncomfortable with it."

John felt the weight of certainty like an almost physical impact to his chest. He was pretty sure he knew exactly who these people were.

"Is one of these men doe-eyed and gentle and the other like a scarred bull?"

Zoe stared. "You know them, did you freelance for them?"

He shook his head.

"Tell me which one is getting the session."

He could envision the power dynamic between those two working in only one direction but he had to be sure. If he was wrong and the session was for Elias, it could be dicey. It would be impossible for Anthony to cause any pain to Elias, whether Elias wanted it or not, John thought. Anthony might think he could tolerate another man taking that role but John doubted he could stand for it to be him, especially as flirtatious as Elias had been with him. It could be disastrous for the asset relationship, not to mention wreck the party if Anthony lost his grip.

"The scarred bull," she said. John closed his eyes and nodded, relieved.

"Is there any possibility that they know who I am, anything they've said that would lead you to believe they have knowledge of who you're setting them up with?"

"Nothing. How could they? My contact doesn't know you."

"They expressed no preference?"

"Only for a man, not a woman."

"You'd better have Grice on hand. Your guests might not like their first choice."

"That's a dangerous smile, John. How do you know them?"

"It's … complicated."

"Why is nothing simple with you. You're willing to do the session, or saying you're willing because you think they'll back out when they find out it's you."

"Something like that."

"Well, I can't warn them about you because I wasn't supposed to tell you anything about them. I'll help Devon get prepped and let them choose. Damn you, John. If they do want you, you'd better be ready."

 

***

John decided the best preparation for the night to come was spending the remainder of the afternoon in bed with Harold. Time very well spent.

"I can't believe I have to stand up, let alone go anywhere," Harold muttered, eyes still closed though the blindfold had been gone for a while.

"You'll feel more like it when you're clean. And dressed," John said. He lay content beside him, his hand meandering lazily from the slight soft curve of his breast down his stomach and between his legs.

"What I'm looking forward to," Harold said, "is seeing you wear the suit Gianni made for you."

"I just hope it fits." He nuzzled the side of Harold's face with a kiss and whispered, "I'm not sure the guy who took my measurements knew what he was doing."

"If it doesn't fit … it's because you barely stood still."

John's hand slid farther between his legs. He wanted to feel the wetness, the evidence of his pleasure.

 

***

Seeing the place through Harold's eyes was a wholly different experience. Colored lights, decorations, a lot of velvet to offset the leather. The enormous space had become intimate with focused, flattering light and the plush rugs Zoe favored. 

To John it was the Blue Room, a cavernous venue where a lot of equipment was stored and group scenes were occasionally played out. A converted church, it had a full kitchen and bathroom facilities. The times he'd been there at Christmas he'd been a reluctant guest, not particularly taken in by the holiday transformation. Now he could concede that Zoe and company did a nice job of creating a Christmas tableau. They'd aimed for a more traditional effect than John remembered from years past. The tree was heavily decorated and crowded with gifts. Comfortable seating was arranged both for cocktails and John assumed, the exhibition, though the equipment for that was currently covered and unlit. The table was set formally and elaborately.

"Her ladies do all this work, John? It's so impressive, so pretty," Harold said, looking all around them. John was handing their coats off to a young woman in very stylish leather gear. Across the room, on one of the velvet couches, he saw that Anthony and Elias were indeed present and had seen him. He looked their way, let the bare hint of a smile touch his lips, and leaned forward to whisper to Harold.

"The special guests are here, and we know them. Or I do. It's Elias and his boyfriend, Anthony." John allowed Harold's surprise to stand in for his own lack thereof. He had deliberately kept the information to himself so that at least Harold's reaction would be convincing.

"Oh my. Oh my goodness. Which one is which?"

"Anthony is the dark haired one with the scar. I'll introduce you."

"Woof, Harold," Shaw appeared, also clad in leather and sporting a tail through the back seam of her tight pants. She turned around to show him, bending forward and giving a little shake of her butt.

"Don't … pull it," John warned him quietly. 

"He can pull it if he wants to, John," she said looking back over her shoulder.

"Perhaps later," Harold said, and John could see he was uncertain exactly how the curving, rubbery looking tail was attached. "If you behave during dinner."

Zoe's current stable of pros as well as former associates and significant others, and a number of carefully screened guests made up the gathering of twenty. John knew many of them, at least by name, or pseudonym as the case might be. He felt different attending the party with a partner, proud of and protective of Harold who drew glances as they moved through the room. He was steering him toward the area where Zoe, resplendent in a red leather dress, was posed rather than sitting near her special guests.

"John," Zoe said, looking up at him. "My guests say they've had the pleasure of meeting you. But they had no idea of your hidden talent."

"We've met," John said.

"Do I know you," Harold asked, with some confusion, gazing at Anthony. John realized, hearing this, that he'd never explained anything about him to Harold who probably had a hazy memory of a police officer he'd seen at the Eighth Precinct.

Anthony stood up, he offered his hand.

"We've never actually met. My name is Anthony. I used to be a police officer, that's how you know my face. I'm so sorry for what you went through. It's good to meet you under happier circumstances."

"Thank you," Harold said, taking the offered hand. "That's very kind." John was grateful for how smoothly Anthony responded to Harold but resolved to step in between them at the earliest opportunity. He saw that Elias also seemed riveted by Harold. Zoe rose, and gave John a look he recognized as self-congratulatory. As far as he was concerned, his submissive was the one responsible for how smoothly things were going.

"I understand I have you to thank for recommending us to Gianni," Harold said to Elias.

"And I recognize his beautiful workmanship. It's very good to meet you." 

John tuned in and out of the conversation but his attention was largely on Anthony, who gave him a signal to go talk in private. John nodded, following him to the darker area by the play space.

"You," Anthony said. "Your ugly face shows up everywhere I turn. Never would have figured you for this."

"I'm officially retired. Zoe called in a favor."

"Yeah, well."

"Doesn't have to be me. There's another pro here."

"It's gonna be you, big guy. I saw the other fucker, didn't look up to the job."

"Have you done this before?"

"Club scenes, hoods, the whole deal. Got a little torn up. Elias didn't like what he saw when I got home. This, tonight, he thinks it's for me but this place," Anthony looked around, frowning at the women in their high-priced fetish gear. "It's his style. He wants this thing about me taken care of with class, with money. "

"What do you think?"

The man shrugged.

"I think Elias is too good for me. But you, I think you're an ugly bastard that won't have any problem whaling the shit out of me. I can take whatever you've got but for his sake, don't make it too bloody."

"Got it."

Anthony wasn't the only one who wanted to take John aside. Elias found an opportunity to talk to him before dinner. They stood as if looking at the tree, Elias with a glass of wine in hand.

"I've loved him a very long time," he said, speaking softly, not looking at him. "We were in a boys' home together and the beatings were bad, worse for him. I used to clean him up, after. He was … a beautiful boy and he suffered for it. He's still suffering for it. The man has enough scars, John, do you hear me?"

"I hear you."

 

***

 

The wine was excellent and Harold was enjoying a mild buzz. It made everything a little more glittery and complemented the food very well. The little dog was somewhat well-behaved, with Zoe keeping her in line. Near the end of the meal, sitting back in his chair, Harold was charmed by seeing her leaning into Zoe's lap and was gazing at them fondly when he realized that one of her paws had disappeared under the red leather. His face grew suddenly warm, he looked up and found Zoe watching him, watching. She smiled and silently mouthed the words "Pull her tail."

"No I … don't think that's a good idea. Thank you, though," he said, and was relieved that John claimed his attention, putting an arm around his shoulders.

"More wine?" John asked him.

"No, I think I've probably had enough to drink." He'd noted that John was drinking water and remembered that sobriety was one of his requirements for a session. Looking down the table he noted that Anthony was also not drinking wine. Harold could understand why Shaw had described him as tough-looking but he thought the man's looks were more striking than tough and had felt a warmth from him that belied the label she'd given him.

John's arm around him made him wish they were leaving after dinner, or maybe after the gift-giving, and he could just curl up in bed with him. He looked at John's hand that was resting on the table and found himself thinking of sucking on his fingers.

It must be the wine, he thought, but was happy that John chose that moment to pick up an olive to feed him. Harold reached up and grasped his wrist, holding his hand in place long enough to bite a fingertip and run his tongue over the skin which tasted like the olive he'd just fed him.

John leaned closer and Harold felt a very pleasurable shiver when his lips touched his ear.

"Unless you want to perform the exhibition with me, Harold, no more biting or licking."

"Sorry," he said, and thought, definitely no more wine.

 

***

John began looking over the preparations for the scene when the gifts were open and most of the guests were exchanging thanks and showing off presents. Looking at the St. Andrew's Cross Zoe had arranged for him to use, he thought it was too theatrical, too pretty. He pushed it back out of the way and covered it. All that left was a heavy wooden chair, and an old metal bed frame with a cot mattress, plain linens, a bed pillow; things he'd intended for after care but now the elemental nature of them seemed a good fit for Anthony. He thought these simple props would have more impact on this particular submissive.

Water, hand cuffs, the leather strap, a couple of towels on a side table. John folded one of the towels in half and dropped it in front of the chair. No need to torture Anthony's knees, he thought. The other was folded and draped on the back of the chair in case he needed it.

He saw Anthony and Elias exchange a kiss and Anthony was up, heading toward him through the discarded gift wrap and ribbons, like snow drifts around the tree.

"It takes them a while to clear everything away and shift the seats," John told him. He saw Anthony looking over the shadowy chair and bed, curious.

"What happened to the cross?"

"It's back there. You want it?"

Anthony shrugged. "You're the pro," he said. He looked at John a little more seriously than he had earlier. John felt him trying to assess what these props meant. The room had grown more quiet, people were whispering and furniture was being rearranged. Anthony looked back at the couches. "They want a show."

"Doesn't matter what they want," John told him. "Except," he conceded, "maybe Elias, and Harold." Anthony laughed.

"You got that right, asshole. Is that what you're working in, no leathers. No chains or boots."

"This is it," John said.

The lights came on around them, not overly bright but enough illumination. John removed his tie, his cufflinks and took off his jacket. One of the Dommes came to take them from him. He rolled up his sleeves, feeling ready, focused minutely on Anthony.

"I want you to understand," he told him, and the man watched him intently as a hush fell around them, "that this session or any activity will end on your say so or if I say it's over."

"Red, yellow, green?" Anthony said, and already John noted a change in his voice, quieter.

"That's fine. Do you have any questions for me?"

"No," he said, and John heard the ghost of the word, Sir, unspoken.

"Let's begin. From this moment on," he said, fixing the submissive's dark eyes with his gaze, "you will address me as, Sir. I will address you … however I like." He could see Anthony absorbing his intent and backing up slightly.

"Now," John said. "Take off your clothes."

"No sweet talk?" Anthony taunted uneasily, testing him, and John back-handed him, not that hard but so fast he staggered a little.

"No sweet talk ... Sir," John corrected.

He was gratified to see him shake off being struck, and slowly shrug out of his jacket, maintaining eye contact. He began to strip without further comment. A woman appeared to take his clothes as he shed them and John considered it a good sign that Anthony looked only at him. He could already feel that the session was going to be powerful. There was no pretense whatsoever in Anthony's eyes. The honesty of his submission, his responsiveness heightened John's senses. The man was relaxed, he was opening up quickly as the seconds ticked past and his clothes came off. What poured from him had no sexual charge; it was a deep and almost overpowering sadness.

John had encountered the need for pain in many guises. For some it was purely pleasure, their means of achieving orgasm. For some it was an exorcism of guilt, an act of penance. He'd met only a few who were stuck, fixated on past suffering they couldn't move beyond … and that was his understanding of Anthony. 

The scar on his face was nothing compared to the evidence of beatings, mainly on his back and the backs of his arms. John could picture clearly the position Anthony's body had been in when he received these blows and knew the instinct that drew him to choose the wooden chair had been a true one.

There was murmuring as the onlookers reacted to the body being revealed. Anthony heard the reactions too, and a smirk appeared on his face … a sign he was rising out of the state John wanted him in. It was part of his tough guy stance.

Keeping his voice pitched low so the energy was drawn back between the two of them, John said, "Look at me, pretty boy." The self conscious grin disappeared and John saw the pain again, but with a dangerous gleam of defiance. It was exactly what he wanted from him, to draw it out. To build on it, John moved quickly to overpower him, using techniques honed from years of subduing targets, forcing him down on his knees and twisting his arms to cuff his hands behind his back. Anthony was panting and red-faced by the time he stepped away. John paused to drink some water before turning back to him.

"Knees on the towel, boy," he told him. Anthony shuffled forward onto the white square.

His eyes were downcast. John could see the boy he'd been, darkly beautiful, a sensuous face. A trouble-maker, defiant. There was no arousal in this for Anthony, only suffering he craved. John bent him over the seat of the chair.

He warmed him with the strap, starting slow, striking him hard enough to feel it but not breaking skin or drawing blood. Moving over the surfaces of his body, reading every muscle twitch and micro motion of response. As the impact intensified Anthony began to ride the pain. John sensed it moving him deeper as the skin reddened, but not deep enough. He paused and went down on one knee to look in his eyes.

"Fuck you … Sir," Anthony whispered, voice choked. The sadness was swelling but they hadn't gotten where he needed to go.

John got in closer to his face, grabbed him by the hair and said, "You got that backwards, pussy boy." He said it low and dirty and Anthony let out an unearthly moan. Here was the key, John thought. He pulled him upright on his knees and sat down on the chair.

His thighs splayed, he lay the spare towel across his groin. He saw the direction he had to take him. There was no pleasure in it for Anthony and certainly none for John. This was oral rape. It was clear to him that the boy had been beaten bent over with his hands behind his back; now he understood that it wasn't just over a chair. The towel would provide the separation they needed.

"You're gonna suck me, boy, and if I feel your teeth I'm going to put it up your ass instead." He pulled him face down into his crotch. Now the blows lined up almost exactly to the welt-like scars on his back, biting into his arms and Anthony was sobbing and gagging into his lap, gut-wrenching, as John laid the strap into him, over and over but lessening in intensity until there was nothing left for the submissive to give. He dropped the strap on the floor.

"It's over, Anthony. Don't try to talk."

John signaled for the lights to be lowered and the semi-darkness was a relief. Anthony was heavily leaning into him but John felt the weight was a good thing, it meant he'd utterly let go. He let him rest, stroking his hair until the soft weeping stopped then he lifted him by his shoulders, up on his knees.

"I'm going to help you to your feet now," he told him and levered the solid body upright. The cuffs came off and John guided him to the bed. He made him drink some water and then he lay him down and wrapped the sheet around him, fixed the pillow to support his head.

"Rest," he told him.

"You," Anthony croaked.

"Right here." John sighed. He pulled the chair over close but he knew it wasn't close enough, so he left it and circled around behind him to lie down and put a protective arm around him. It was familial contact, a re-balancing of power and assurance.

"Elias wants to be with you now," John said, when he felt Anthony was ready.

"Okay."

"You did great," John told him. Anthony grunted and turned on his back when John got up. John felt a little wrung out but good, as if they had reached their destination. Sessions like this were few. Anthony, though what he had to offer was much different, shared with Harold a sincerity and honesty in his submission that made the exchange worthwhile.

Elias was close by, watching, waiting.

"Have you got his clothes?" John asked.

"I'll get them. Is he okay, John?"

"He's good. Still a little dazed but coming back. It was … very good."

John was looking for Harold and saw him with Shaw. She was on her knees in a new bed, leaning against him, looking dreamy-eyed while he stroked her loosened hair. It made John smile. He was still amused by remembering the look on Zoe's face when Shaw opened her gift from Harold to find a studded collar buckled around the jar of "dog treats."

"You're collaring my dog, Harold?" she'd said, dry with a twist, worthy of a martini.

"She can wear it when she visits us if you don't like the look of it," Harold had said, completely unaware of any significance beyond pleasing Shaw, who clearly was in favor of wearing it.

"It's awesome. Put it on me." Shaw had given Zoe a look that everyone but Harold understood to mean, if you don't want someone else's collar on me you'd better get down to business. Harold had fastened it on her neck and the sterling tag dangled at her throat, it was inscribed, "Little Dog." Thick but supple black leather with sterling studs because Harold thought it was a style she'd like. And she did.

John was happy to see him with his pet, neither looking worse for having witnessed the session.

"John," he said, looking up. Shaw gave a little groan at losing his attention.

"Okay," she said. "The big dog's here." She gave John a look as she got up. "You may have the pretty ring but I got the collar."

"You're a lucky dog," he agreed but was glad to be left alone with Harold. He wanted to bury himself in him, roll in his scent.

"Are you all right, John?"

"Are you?" he asked, sinking into the couch beside him. Harold turned to face him and looked him over as if to check that all his parts had come back correctly assembled. The sweep of the blue-eyed gaze made John feel present and accounted for, reclaimed. He was happy when Harold reached out to touch him, stroking his hand down his arm, dispelling its use to strike a man with a strap.

"It was difficult to watch, however it was also quite beautiful in a way. Carl sat with me and Ms Shaw. It was hard for him when Anthony wept. I think we all cried a little. Is that what you were expecting to have happen?"

"No … but it went the way it had to, to give him the relief he needed."

Harold took John's hand in both of his to lift to his lips and kiss.

"Can I get some of that finger sucking I had to give up earlier?" John asked him.

"I think we should go home," Harold said. "And you'll see what I give you."


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bringing it to a close. I've given Harold a different relationship with the machine because I always wanted him to benefit more from its capabilities though I understood the restraints in the context of the show. This version of the boys has been a lot of fun to write and I may have to revisit them in the future. Thank you to all my generous readers!

They were at home Christmas night, mellow with wine and very full of Italian food. Elias had cooked much of the meal himself in the kitchen of the restaurant in Brooklyn where he hosted the dinner. The gathering had been large and they'd enjoyed their anonymity among the crowd of families, stuffing themselves with good food all afternoon.

John wondered why, with such a crowd of people, it was so important to Elias for them to attend. Until they were seated at the "family table" to either side of an elderly woman named Gloria Recinto, whom Elias introduced as the woman who'd raised him. "Good company for you, Gloria … the best. My friends John and Harold."

He had to smile at the thought of Elias wanting them there, essentially to impress his mom. Evidently she had balked at spending another Christmas mingling with his "no good" friends. She eyed John a little askance but fell instantly in love with Harold.

At home, John was quickly out of his clothes, into pajama pants he wore because Harold had given them to him. He was looking forward to some quiet Harold time; maybe more, once the lethargy of digestion passed. He watched him hanging up his jacket.

"Today," Harold said, turned away from him, "is actually the anniversary of my accident."

John's attention shifted from sleepy contemplation of his partner to a more alert assessment. "It was twelve years ago," he said. "I was skiing with Nathan."

"Just the two of you?" Harold nodded, glancing at him, then looking down to take out his cufflinks.

"Well, the family was at the cabin. I almost didn't join them that year. My dad was very ill." John waited for him to continue.

"He'd been sick for quite a while but he'd taken a turn for the worse; he was suffering from Alzheimer's among other things." Harold continued to undress. It was possible, John thought, that he needed the small distance of activity in order to discuss this.

"I didn't think I should leave him but at the last minute, Nathan convinced me to take a couple of days. I arrived on Christmas Eve. As it happened, Christmas was both the day my father died and the day of my accident." He had stopped, holding his trousers and the hanger, gazing down at them as if he wasn't sure what to do with them. John moved quickly to his side and took both gently from his hands. He draped the pants neatly and hung them up. When he turned back, Harold was looking up at him.

"You've been incredibly thoughtful, John. Most people … it's one of the first things they want to know about me. How I was injured. Gloria asked me this afternoon when we had our little dance together. What a sweet woman. She was very patient with my dancing. When I told her, I realized I've never spoken to you about it. I don't think I've avoided it, I just, I've enjoyed the way you never look at me with pity. You may be the only person who never has since my accident."

"You inspire a lot of feelings in me, Harold. Pity isn't one of them. I don't think I'm alone … I see how people look at you."

He'd begun on his shirt buttons. John wanted very much to take over this unbuttoning and it must have shown in his eyes because Harold stopped, took his hands and said, "You do it." He stroked John's arms as he undid the buttons. "Mainly, I wanted to tell you that this is the first Christmas I've enjoyed in a very long time. Of course … there are a number of things I've enjoyed for the first time since I met you." John saw that saying this had brought the color up in Harold's cheeks.

"You're blushing," he said. "I like that."

"Honestly, John. You like everything." He lowered his eyes with a combination of delight and shyness that made John want to consume him whole.

"Come lie down with me."

 

***

Harold sank gratefully into the pillows, more than ready to give himself up to John. The afternoon had been full and it had been enjoyable. Being with John for hours in the company of strangers was pleasurable in a way; seeing others attracted to him, women and men drawn to him. Knowing that he was his own. As the time wore on he'd begun to crave this. To be closer.

He was glad he'd finally spoken to him about the accident and relieved that John had not pressed him for details. He'd felt the hint of jealousy and mistrust of Nathan when John asked, "Just the two of you?" and hoped he wouldn't pursue it. Nathan bore no responsibility for what had happened. Of the medical details, there was no need for discussion. John understood his injuries, his pain, probably as well as any doctor that had ever examined him.

Right now the muscles he'd called on all day were being loosened, the strain soothed away.

"Harold," John said, and the tone opened Harold's eyes to see him. The man's expression was more serious than he expected. John was not a man of many words; he tended to speak succinctly and express himself best in other ways. Harold was very sensitive to moments when he knew he needed to pay close attention.

"Whatever you think you've been able to enjoy since you met me," John said, "you should know, for me … it's been more."

More, Harold thought, trying to make sense of this strangely solemn declaration. John's hand was resting on him, spanning his stomach and Harold took him by his wrist.

"More, John?"

"I was … dead." Harold looked into his eyes and thought of the scars on John's body but realized this wasn't about physical trauma. This was about a man being erased.

"Come here."

He drew him down to hold in his arms, to kiss; love welling from his heart. If John found life in him, he was welcome to every breath, every heartbeat. It felt like life to kiss him.

 

***

The new year brought Harold to the end of his work on the machine. He spent most of January fine-tuning, and then he admitted, procrastinating.

"After all this time, I find I'm not so eager to let it go."

John was hoping to provide some distraction for him with a play space he was creating, with Shaw's assistance, in one of the reading rooms. The major piece of equipment was the work table made by the same craftsman who'd manufactured the changing table for the Rose room. The biggest challenge was keeping Shaw off it.

"My tail, it could fit right through … here," she'd said, sticking her arm through the genital opening.

"Only if your ass was on this table which … isn't going to happen."

It wasn't the first or last time he regretted letting her help him put it together. But she was good with a wrench and at following directions. It had been her idea to finish outfitting the area with the arm chair and fluffy rug, though he suspected she was picturing herself on the rug cozied up to Harold in the chair.

She was showing up more often since Root had come back from Shanghai. John was tolerant of this to a point but hoped whatever was going on between the three women didn't spill over into his life.

"We can't take in a stray dog," he told Harold.

"I understand," Harold said, but John was pretty sure that if Shaw made her puppy dog eyes at him, he wouldn't be able to resist.

***

It was the first week of February when Harold finally gave up possession of the machine. He wasn't present when the servers were shipped out to their undisclosed location but he'd given up his access, closing all doors to the autonomous system. Once he'd done it, far from feeling relieved to be free, he found himself mourning its absence, the intimate presence of the machine's consciousness. He was sorely tempted to seek a way back in though he'd vowed he would not. The first day was bad, the second day dragged in emptiness.

John gave him space for his sadness. Harold could sense him watching and waiting for a sign that he was ready to emerge from the cloud he was inhabiting. He did spend time physically close to him. It was soothing to be held, to be petted, but he felt no interest in more than that and John let him be.

It was on the third day that the machine itself reached out to him; prompts on his phone, his computer, seeking admin. Impossible. He briefly suspected Root of toying with him.

"I have to resist this," he told John. And tried. He succeeded for … hours. John urged him out of the library, hoping it would help. For once, despite the frigid cold, Harold was eager to comply, if only to get away from his various devices. 

Under a heavy gray sky they walked in the West Village, the planned destination was a new cafe Harold had read reviews of online. A pay phone began to ring as they passed it. The next pay phone began to ring as Harold drew level. Two were a curiosity, a coincidence. The third time it happened, they stopped walking and looked at one another.

"I think you'd better answer it, Harold," John said.

 

***

A non-relevant number. The concept astounded him. A category he'd never explicitly created or defined. He had so carefully shaped the parameters of relevant danger to define terrorist acts. He felt like a parent trying to come to terms with how much a child learns that is never taught. For every lesson created a hundred unspoken are absorbed.

"What have I done," he wondered aloud.

One thing he'd unquestionably done was leave room for the machine to map a category of its own and now it was funneling this information to him.

"John, this could be a terrible mistake." Harold watched him arm himself, saw the steel of his resolve and part of him wished he'd never a said a word about what he'd seen. Wished he'd never responded to the prompt of the machine.

"Harold, I'm going to take a look, make sure the woman is okay."

"What can you do? You can't shadow her until something happens."

"Trust me," John said, pausing to squeeze Harold's shoulders. Harold grasped the cloth of his coat.

"I never intended the machine for this. It's crazy to think we can single-handedly stop the violence people do to one another."

"We may not be able to help this woman, but if we can … " John's lips touched his and Harold pressed into the kiss, hoping it conveyed all his desire for him to be careful and return to him unharmed.

 

Amanda Kovach. Harold's initial search had turned up little of note. Born and raised in New York. High school graduate with two years of college. Married. No children. Then he uncovered the hospital records. Searching deeper he found her name in police reports. Multiple domestic disturbances, 911 calls made by neighbors at two different residences, including a very recent one that generated a police report for the arrest of her husband, Edward Kovach. The charges against him had been dropped in every case.

Looking through the material he'd unearthed, as he listened for any word from John, Harold noticed a detail he'd missed before. An auxiliary report attached to the police file by Detective Jocelyn Carter. He recognized her name and remembered the woman from the Eighth Precinct.

He heard John's connection come live.

"I'm going in, Harold."

"What, wait."

"Call 911. I think this guy has a gun. She's locked herself in the bathroom but … " Harold could hear the sound of his breathing change, and echoing indoor ambient sound. His hand was shaking as he punched in the emergency numbers on another line.

 

***

 

From his position on the roof next door, with a scope, John saw enough to recognize a fight in action from glimpses through the apartment windows, the woman retreating from her husband's blows; the husband breaking away to search for something, frantically pawing through drawers. Even as he told Harold to call in the cops he knew they wouldn't get there in time and was racing to intervene.

As John broke in, Edward Kovach was trying to shoot his way into the locked bathroom. Kovach, shocked by the front door banging open, turned and shot wildly but John didn't hesitate because he could see his movement and the angle of his arm would send his shot wide. He subdued and disarmed him easily, binding him in the wrapped cord of a nearby lamp.

"Mrs Kovach," he said, through the splintered door, "he can't hurt you now. The police are on their way."

"Get out now, John," Harold implored him.

"I'm out," he assured him. He watched from the shadows to see the patrol cars paint the dark street in flashing light. There was no doubt in his mind that he'd had to act to save her life. "The police are here. I'm on my way home."

Now he needed to reassure Harold.

 

***

"I hacked into the precinct computers," Harold said. "She is pressing charges this time. Thank god. You only appear in her statement as a man who overheard her cries for help, a voice through the door. They're continuing to interview neighbors." Harold was still shaken; he could hear the tremor in his own voice and couldn't will it under control.

"Tell me what's worrying you now," John said.

Harold's heart rate had barely normalized from the horror of hearing gun shots, the sounds of fists making impact, the guttural grunting of the physical struggle. He looked at John; his very brave, very competent lover, a man as comfortable bearing weapons as Harold was wearing a waistcoat. He deeply resented that at some level John was elated. He looked refreshed … like he'd been for a particularly good run. His cheeks were still ruddy from the cold, his eyes bright.

"Worrying me? The list is long and varied but at the top of it is you."

"I was never in danger," he said. Harold knew John believed that … but he didn't.

He pushed away from the computer and stood up, wincing as his hip complained from the general tension in his body. He knew John was instantly alert to the strain in his movements but was holding back, wisely. Harold didn't want to be touched. His emotions were torn and he needed to regroup before he tried to express them to John. He headed for the room they called their kitchen, what they thought must have been a break room for the library employees. A sink and counter space, a few cabinets with orphaned dishes and abandoned mugs. There was a refrigerator and an ancient microwave. Now the cabinets held essentials, like a tin of Harold's favorite tea, another of coffee.

Harold filled an electric kettle and switched it on. In one mug, hand still shaking slightly, he put a tea-ball filled with green tea leaves. Over a second mug he placed a one-cup drip filter, assuming John would eventually follow him and want a hot drink. He heard him but didn't turn to look at him.

"Coffee?" he asked him.

"Sure."

Harold took his time spooning the ground coffee into the filter. The aroma was rich and earthy, a scent he associated with John. Focusing on the task at hand, he let his thoughts order themselves. His hands were steadier when he put the coffee away. He heard John pull out a chair to sit down. The water came to a boil and shut off. He waited a moment to begin the ritual of slow pouring. By the time he'd finished he was calm; thoughts collected.

"I suppose what worries me most is your readiness to put yourself in harm's way," he said. "I understand it, I think. At heart you're a soldier, John." He turned to face him. "For you it's … exhilarating and fulfilling. I applaud that, honestly. But … at the same time, it terrifies me." He carried his tea to the table and set down the mug. "What's worse, is knowing this is probably just the beginning."

"You think these numbers will keep coming," John said. Harold nodded and went back to the counter for John's coffee, watching the little hill of coffee diminish as the last of the water seeped through.

"Is it possible to live with the knowledge that people are in danger that we might be able to help? Definitely not for you. For me, it would be unbearable though there's little I can do, physically." He set the filter holder in the sink and carried the steaming mug to the table. "My other worries, my fears, are centered on the machine. It reached out to me in a way that shouldn't be possible, that I never intended. I'm … somewhat overwhelmed."

He stood still beside him, relaxed enough now to appreciate his return, his presence.

He found himself gazing at the gray in John's hair, wondering what it was about it that was so compelling. A flaw that emphasized perfection; threads of mortality, he thought. He rested a hand on John's shoulder and leaned down to kiss him where the hair rose from his forehead in a little spray of silver. He inhaled the scent of him, mingling with the coffee aroma and put his other hand flat on his chest, stroking over his heart to feel it beat.

"I'll be okay, John," he assured him.

"I know you will," he whispered, tilting his head back. Harold looked down into the glittery, half-shut eyes and couldn't resist kissing him. He could survive marriage to a soldier, he would live with the fear of losing him for the sake of having him to love. There was no better or more perfect partner for him, no one he could conceive of loving more. No better person to aid him in dealing with the unraveling mysteries of the machine.

 

***

 

He'd meant to reassure Harold but it was Harold who reassured him. He watched him control and transform his fear. It was always instructive to watch Harold. A fluid mind and shifting emotions, honestly expressed. Harold always emerged from the depth of speculation with better understanding, an eloquent grasp. John only had to wait and listen.

It was never easy when Harold held himself distant from touch but it was always deeply moving when he reached out. The kisses along his hairline, the hand on his shoulder, on his chest were almost painfully pleasurable, soothing and arousing all at once. He shifted in the chair to give his erection room to grow.

In the wake of the physical violence a part of his inner, animal self had wanted to bend Harold over the nearest surface and fuck him the instant he got home. He wasn't that animal, but it paced within him. It was as if returning to the den he'd found his mate skittish and cautious, needing to slowly come near, catch his scent and rub up against him.

John took hold of Harold as their kiss became deeper, one hand on his ass, pressing into the seam of his trousers and the other in his crotch, finding his cock getting hard and massaging it. He heard little sounds of need, of pleasure come out of him and knew the few days of abstinence were over.

 

***

In April, almost a year to the day since they met, John married Harold. It was meant to be a small, hidden affair but like a nightmare he couldn't control John found it kept expanding. He blamed Zoe though in the end he also had to thank her.

The night before the wedding, his physical need for Harold was almost insatiable. He fucked him, he washed him clean and groomed him … and fucked him again.

His bride-to-be was pink from scrubbing, loose limbed, his arms spread out on the bed, one foot in John's towel-covered lap, the other in his hands. He took special care of Harold's feet, especially in the winter months, keeping them moisturized and supple, his toenails trimmed and smooth, buffed. The toes were damp now from his sucking and he was nibbling on the foot. He rubbed it over his cheek and reluctantly returned it to his lap.

Harold watched him with a look of dazed pleasure that made John feel the world was good and his beloved submissive was as pampered as he should be. He noted the marks he'd created here and there with his sucking and his mouth watered, savoring the fresh memory of softness under his lips and tongue. He moved the other foot in his lap to press against his semi-hard dick.

"Isn't this supposed to happen tomorrow … the wedding night?" Harold nudged him with his toes through the towel.

"In case we don't make it," he said, only half joking.

"We'll make it. Carl promised. And the machine."

John suppressed a groan at the thought of every thug in Elias's empire providing security for his wedding. The machine … he placed more trust there.

Root spoke of the machine as a god. To him, it was Harold, his brilliance and his goodness, his loving nature reaching beyond the confines of his body, out into the world. Since the day in February when they'd received the first number, more had come. Sometimes daily. There was surely much more violence, more premeditated murder in the world than they could ever hope to stop, but the numbers revealed to them, those that they could save, they did. Shaw was his right arm (and tomorrow would be his best … person.) His assets had multiplied. Harold was the one who'd urged him to reach out to Jocelyn Carter, the detective. Her partner, Lionel Fusco was on board. Elias, Anthony, Owen. Root.

John drew a deep breath. His submissive needed sleep. They both did but the part of him that hadn't been joking about the dangers of the wedding clung to this night like it might be their last.

 

***

"Lie down here," Harold said and watched fondly as the long body unfolded beside him. Harold sat up and turned out the light. He pat his pillow into place on John's hip and lay down curled on his good side in reach of stroking and sucking his lover's restless cock.

"Harold …"

"Hush. If this our last night, you should give me what I want." He smiled a little, unseen in the dark, caressing the plump shaft. Of the many pleasures John gave him this remained the most rare. So he treasured it. He knew it wasn't easy for John to give, not because he didn't enjoy the sensation, because he was wary of placing strain on Harold's neck. So Harold didn't ask for it often though he loved it. He loved the taste and feel in his mouth, the intimacy. A gift, that he alone had access to the most private parts of John's body, so vulnerable and yet so powerful. He sucked and stroked and felt John's hand wander over him, touching his face, stroking his hair. He could feel the tension in the man's thighs, the swell and lifting of his balls as his orgasm approached and was grateful that John did not hold back, giving him what precious fluid there was by ejaculating in his mouth. There wasn't much because of the number of times he'd come that night, but Harold was satisfied by it and swallowed it easily.

He let John ease him up afterwards, helping him into the spooned position they'd perfected from many night's practice and knew that sleep would come sweetly and easily for both of them now.

 

***

John had wanted the legal minimum for a wedding. Witnesses, somebody qualified to say the right words and file the paperwork. Zoe kept assuring him that she was keeping it small but it seemed like every time Harold mentioned it, the guest list had grown. In the wake of so many things that were a trial for Harold, John didn't have the heart to deny him something he was truly looking forward to. And who was he to argue with a machine that calculated risks and controlled surveillance, assessing the odds favorably for their wedding.

The day was bright and windy, much like the day John recalled first meeting Harold on a lofty floor of the IFT building. The Blue Room was reborn in something close to its original configuration as a church; pews bedecked with flowers, musicians in the balcony. An altar. Shaw was in what Zoe had designated the groom's dressing room, with his tux. Though he wasn't much of a drinker any more, when she pulled a flask from her coat he downed a shot.

"Time to suit up, altar boy." John felt the warmth of the whiskey spread through him. He stripped down quickly and felt the puppy dog eyes on him.

"Not bad," she said. He looked up to see she'd taken her coat off and his jaw dropped. The tight little white dress she had on hugged her … everywhere.

"Hate to interrupt this mildly erotic moment, but we're gonna miss your wedding if you don't get a move on."

"That's quite a dress, Shaw."

"Oh … I can work it."

"Just don't work it too close to Harold."

"Speaking of close to Harold, Zoe's not giving him away, Nathan is."

John suddenly found himself unable to manage his bow tie. He gave it a savage pull. There was a knock at the door and a mellifluous voice with an Italian lilt, "Hello?"

"Come in." It was one of Gianni's young assistants with the flowers for John's lapel in hand. He eyed Shaw curiously, took a look at John's tie and took over the dressing detail.

"So handsome," he said, adjusting the beautifully-tied butterfly bow. He fixed the flower in place and stood back to judge.

Shaw snuck another pull from her flask and handed it to him.

"You look okay, big dog."

 

***

 

Harold was worried about John but trusted Shaw to ride herd and make sure he made it to the altar. For him the day was unfolding magically. With Gianni and one of his assistants there to help him dress in the pristine white tuxedo, he was savoring every moment. So many friends in attendance, Nathan, Olivia, their son Will and his wife. Zoe and her beautiful ladies, Owen as well. Even Detective Carter and her partner had come. Carl and Anthony had brought Gloria Recinto and their friend Bruce Moran. Blessed Gianni and his young men.

It was hard not to cry with beautiful music playing and Nathan walking him down the aisle. He'd known the man for so long and these many months of isolation made this day feel like a family reunion. He recognized many IFT people in the pews. He saw women he recognized from John's gym, sitting with Owen. He did well up a little when he saw John and the little dog watching him. Nathan handed him a handkerchief.

"Sorry," Harold murmured.

"It's what I'm here for," Nathan said.

Root spoke beautifully, he thought, and managed to refer to John without any hint of irony or sarcasm, for which Harold was very grateful.

Even the stealth with which the event came to a close didn't spoil the day for Harold. There was a bar and a generous buffet of food. He got to spend time with people he'd missed and to toss his wedding bouquet … which Zoe handily caught. They lingered over wedding cake for a little while and toasted the day until the machine signaled it was time for people to disperse. The gathering had drawn attention, as John feared, but by the time agents showed up at the little former church … it was empty.

 

***

"It was perfect," Harold sighed, snuggling deeper into John's embrace.

John could agree, now that it was over. It occurred to him that he was once again in Zoe's debt but it didn't trouble him … she'd made Harold very happy and that was really all that mattered.


End file.
